LOUIS     ROBERT.  •• 


*r" 
^ 


POEMS 


BY 


SARAH    HELEN   WHITMAN. 


BOSTON : 

HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY. 
Cjje  Htoerotfce  Press, 
1879. 


COPYRIGHT,  1878, 
Bv  CHARLOTTE   F.  AND  MAUDE  DAILEY 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED  AND   PRINTED    BY 

H-  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


/H 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY vii 

POEMS I 

A  STILL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN 3 

THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS 6 

MOONRISE  IN  MAY 9 

THE  MORNING-GLORY 12 

WOODWALKS  IN  SPRING 15 

ON  A  STATUE  OF  DAVID 18 

A  NIGHT  IN  AUGUST 21 

To  23 

FLORALIE 24 

STANZAS  WITH  A  BRIDAL  RING        ...  25 

THE  GOLDEN  BALL 26 

ON  FANNIE'S  CHARM  LAMP      ....  33 

IN  APRIL'S  DIM  AND  SHOWERY  NIGHTS      .        .  34 

ON  A  MAGDALEN  BY  CARLO  DOLCE         .        .  36 

SUMMER'S  CALL  TO  THE  LITTLE  ORPHAN    .        .  38 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER        ...  42 

EVENING  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MOSHASSUCK  .  46 

THE  GARDEN  SEPULCHRE          ....  49 

A  DAY  OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER  53 

A  NOVEMBER  LANDSCAPE 58 

A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS 59 

To  63 


/ 


M807903 


IV  CONTENTS. 

MORNING  AFTER  A  STORM 64 

To  E.  O.  S 66 

SHE  BLOOMS  NO  MORE 67 

THE  PAST 69 

THE  RAVEN 72 

REMEMBERED  Music 75 

OUR  ISLAND  OF  DREAMS 76 

THE  LAST  FLOWERS 78 

SONG 80 

WITHERED  FLOWERS 82 

THE  PHANTOM  VOICE 83 

ARCTURUS,  WRITTEN  IN  OCTOBER    ...  86 

RESURGEMUS 87 

SONNETS.    To  .    1 90 

II 91 

III 92 

IV 93 

V 94 

VI 95 

ARCTURUS,  WRITTEN  IN  APRIL       ...  96 

To  THE  MORNING-STAR         ....  99 

HOURS  OF  LIFE 101 

MORNING 103 

NOON 109 

EVENING 125 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS 135 

SONNETS  TO  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING.     I.  137 

II.  138 

HI-  i39 

To  PERDITA 140 

A  PANSY  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS        .        .142 

APPLE  BLOOMS 145 

NIGHT  WANES 147 

NIGHT  AND  STORM 149 

DON  ISLE 151 


CONTENTS.  V 

NIGHTFALL  ON  THE  SEACONNET  SHORE  .  .  153 

To  SHIRLEY .  .156 

PROSERPINE  TO  PLUTO  IN  HADES  .  .  .  158 

THE  TYPHON 162 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 165 

SANTA  GLAUS 167 

OUR  LAST  WALK 170 

OUR  HAUNTED  ROOM 173 

MEMORIAL  HYMN 176 

A  BUNCH  OF  GRAPES 178 

THE  OLD  MIRROR 181 

THE  NIGHT  BLOOMING  CEREUS  .  .  .  .184 

A  PAT  OF  BUTTER 186 

EPIG/EA 188 

SCIENCE 190 

To  THE  ANGEL  OF  DEATH 192 

THE  PORTRAIT 195 

THE  VENUS  OF  MILO 198 

IN  MEMORIAM 201 

MY  FLOWERS  .  .  .  .  •  .  .  .  .  203 

TRANSLATIONS 205 

THE  GARDEN  MINSTER 207 

THE  ROUT  OF  THE  CHILDREN  ....  208 

THE  LOST  CHURCH 214 

LEONORA 217 

FROM  GOETHE'S  FAUST 228 

To  THE  CLOUDS 230 

THE  DYING  HEROES 232 

THE  COTTAGE 235 

CINDERELLA  AND  THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY  237 

CINDERELLA 239 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY 249 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  Nicholas  Powers  of  three  generations  in 
Rhode  Island  traced  their  descent  from  Nicholas 
le  Poer,  whose  castle  of  Don  Isle  was  destroyed 
by  Cromwell.  The  heroic  defense  of  this  castle  by 
the  baroness  of  Don  Isle  is  the  subject  of  a  poem 
in  the  present  volume.  Sarah  Helen  Power,  daugh 
ter  of  the  last  Nicholas  Power,  was  born  in  Provi 
dence,  Rhode  Island,  January  19,  1803,  and  died 
June  27,  1878.  Marrying  John  W.  Whitman,  a 
lawyer  of  Boston,  in  1828,  she  was  left  a  widow 
by  his  death  in  1833.  Betrothed  to  Edgar  Poe,  in 
1848,  a  few  months  before  his  death,  the  engage 
ment  was  broken,  on  the  eve  of  marriage,  by  the  in 
terference  of  friends.  The  early  life  of  the  poet 
was  shadowed  by  the  long  absence  of  her  father, 
and  her  later  years  were  almost  wholly  devoted  to 
a  sister,  left  her  in  sacred  charge  by  her  mother. 
The  poem,  "  In  Memoriam,"  is  the  requiem  of 
this  sister.  This  poem,  Mrs.  Whitman's  last,  has 
all  the  intellectual  vigor  of  youth,  though  written 


Viii  INTRODUCTION. 

at  the  age  of  seventy-five.  The  freshness  of  her 
spirit  and  the  charm  of  her  presence  were  not  lost 
in  the  vicissitudes  of  a  life  of  strange  and  roman 
tic  experience.  No  one  ever  associated  with  her 
the  idea  of  age.  She  is  represented  as  lying  beau 
tiful  as  a  bride  in  death,  her  brown  hair  scarcely 
touched  with  gray. 

The  engraving  in  this  book,  from  Thompson's 
picture,  shows  her  in  the  most  brilliant  period  of 
her  life  at  thirty-five.  The  likeness  is  good  after 
the  lapse  of  forty  years. 

Mrs.  Whitman's  poems,  to  an  unusual  degree, 
illustrate  the  author's  life.  By  her  direction,  the 
poems  relating  to  Edgar  Poe  in  this  volume  have 
been  grouped  together,  though  not  placed  under 
a  separate  head.  To  this  group  belong  "Re 
membered  Music,"  "  Our  Island  of  Dreams," 
"The  last  Flowers,"  "Song,"  "Withered  Flowers," 
"The  Phantom  Voice,"  "Arcturus  in  October," 
"  Resurgemus,"  the  six  "  Sonnets  To  — ," 
"Arcturus  in  April,"  and  also  "The  Portrait," 
in  the  latter  part  of  the  volume. 

In  1860  Mrs.  Whitman  published  the  little  book, 
"  Edgar  Poe  and  his  Critics,"  of  which  Curtis 
wrote,  in  "  Harper's  Weekly : "  "  In  reading  the  ex 
quisitely  tender,  subtle,  sympathetic,  and  profound 
ly  appreciative  sketch  of  Edgar  Poe,  which  has 
just  been  issued  under  this  title,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  remember  the  brave  woman's  arm,  thrust 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

through  the  slide  to  serve  as  a  bolt  against  the 
enemy."  ....  "The  author,  with  an  inexpress 
ible  grace,  reserve,  and  tender,  heroic  charity, — 
having  a  right  which  no  other  person  has  to  speak, 
—  tells  in  a  simple,  transparent,  and  quiet  strain, 
what  she  thinks  of  his  career  and  genius."  .... 
"  In  the  delicate  reticence  of  the  book,  —  in  its 
tone  of  inward  music,  as  if  the  singer  were  hum 
ming  a  melody  beneath  the  song  she  sings,  —  there 
is  a  pensive  and  peculiar  charm.  But  it  is  not  a 
eulogy.  It  is  a  criticism  which  is  profound  by  the 
force  of  sympathy,  and  vigorous  by  its  clear  com 
prehension." 

The  present  volume  is  the  first  collective  pub 
lication  of  Mrs.  Whitman's  Poems.  Twenty-five 
years  ago  a  small  book,  entitled  "Hours  of  Life, 
and  other  Poems,  by  Sarah  Helen  Whitman,"  was 
printed  in  Providence,  containing  about  one  half 
of  the  poems  included  in  the  present  volume.  The 
edition  was  small,  and  the  circulation  limited.  But 
many  of  the  poems  had  already  become  widely 
popular,  and  the  book  received  a  welcome,  such 
as  had  been  rarely  accorded  to  any  similar  pub 
lication  in  this  country,  from  the  best  judges  of 
English  and  American  literature. 

George  William  Curtis  wrote  in  "  Putnam's 
Monthly:"  "We  have  few  collections  of  Ameri 
can  verse  so  strongly  individual  as  this;  so  per 
meated  with  that  sincerity  which  instantly  assures 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

the  reader  that  he  is  not  enjoying  the  distillation, 
through  the  poet,  of  another's  experience,  but 
tastes,  at  first  hand,  the  honey-dew  which  has  not 
fallen  upon  other  pages.  Such  fresh  and  direct 
inspiration  from  nature,  compelling  the  singer  to 
express  not  only  the  ^sentiment  inspired  by  the 
landscape,  but  to  describe  the  landscape  itself, 
with  a  success  so  remarkable  that  it  is  at  once 
song  and  picture,  —  such  pure  and  holy  and  fem 
inine  feeling  for  all  changing  aspects  of  nature  and 
the  year,  as  if  the  singer's  heart  were  a  harp  so 
delicate  that  even  chasing  sun  and  shadow  swept 
it  into  music,  and  yet  a  feeling  entirely  untainted 
with  sentimentality,  —  such  profound  and  solem 
nized  passion,  breathing  through  every  word,  as  if 
the  poet's  life  were  consecrated  to  some  sublime 
sorrow,  which  was,  in  the  truest  sense,  'sancti 
fied,' —  such  affluence  of  extensive  and  rare  cul 
tivation,  everywhere  indicated  and  nowhere  ob 
truded, —  are  not  often  discovered  in  any  volume 
of  poems,  and  never  before  in  those  of  an  Ameri 
can  woman." 

"In  keen  observation  and  delicate  description 
of  nature  Mrs.  Whitman  resembles  Bryant,  except 
that  there  is  a  subtlety  in  her  description  as  if  it 
was  derived  less  from  observation  of  the  spectacle 
and  more  from  sympathy  with  the  spirit.  Hence 
her  landscape  painting  has  a  glow,  a  tone,  that  we 
do  not  so  deeply  recognize  in  the  other  poet." 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

"  The  few  translations  from  the  French  and  Ger 
man  are  among  the  best  in  English  literature,  and 
several  of  the  sonnets  addressed  to  an  unknown 
are  only  to  be  matched  by  the  passionate  and  su 
perb  Portuguese  sonnets  of  Mrs.  Browning." 

George  Ripley  wrote  in  the  New  York  "Tribune  " 
as  follows :  "  The  principal  poem  in  this  volume 
[Hours  of  Life]  is  remarkable  for  the  life-like 
reality  with  which  it  weaves  the  recollections  of  a 
profound  and  intense  experience  into  the  natural 
materials  of  song.  Here  are  all  the  usual  elements 
of  poetry,  —  a  passionate  love  of  nature,  an  imag 
ination  equally  brilliant  and  plastic,  a  tempera 
ment  keenly  alive  to  all  beautiful  inspirations  and 
influences,  a  taste  ripened  and  enriched  by  exqui 
site  culture,  and  a  facility  and  charm  of  expres 
sion,  uniting  spontaneous  grace  and  freshness  with 
classical  finish.  But  it  is  not  these  qualities  that 
form  the  peculiar  distinction  of  the  volume  before 
us.  Rich  as  it  is  in  characteristics  that  would  es 
tablish  an  enviable  poetical  fame  for  any  writer, 
the  vein  of  thought  and  sentiment  which  it  opens 
in  its  leading  piece  gives  it  a  stamp  of  individual 
ity,  as  a  revelation  of  the  inner  life,  which  well- 
nigh  eclipses  the  subordinate  felicities  of  the  vol 
ume." 

"  Every  reader  will  be  struck  with  the  delicacy 
of  touch  which  Mrs.  Whitman  brings  to  the  repre 
sentation  of  nature.  She  has  looked  on  the  uni- 


xii  INTRODUCTION. 

verse  not  merely  with  the  artist's  eye,  but  in  the 
spirit  of  profound  communion  with  its  life,  and 
with  the  passionate  longing  to  wrest  from  it  the 
solution  of  the  '  eternal  mystery.'  " 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  such  tributes  from 
the  Magazines  and  Reviews  of  that  day. 

The  poems  in  this  volume  were  selected  and 
partially  revised  for  publication  by  Mrs.  Whitman 
in  the  last  year  of  her  life.  It  will  be  observed 
that  they  contain  occasional  repetitions  of  senti 
ments,  ideas,  and  favorite  images,  not  only  her 
own,  but  those  of  other  poets.  Mrs.  Whitman 
regarded  all  true  poetry  as  a  contribution  to  the 
common  language  of  poets,  and  often  drew  from 
this  source  without  specially  indicating  it,  except 
where,  from  unfamiliarity,  the  cultivated  reader 
might  fail  to  recognize  the  quotation. 

Mrs.  Whitman  left  the  materials  for  a  volume 
of  her  prose  writings,  and  correspondence,  largely 
autobiographical,  to  be  published  hereafter.  This 
will  include  her  "  Edgar  Poe  and  his  Critics,"  and 
selections  from  her  literary  and  personal  corre 
spondence  of  fifty  years. 

Notwithstanding  the  seclusion  of  Mrs.  Whit 
man's  life,  few  women  had  more  friends.  To  these, 
everywhere,  the  present  volume  is  inscribed. 


POEMS. 


"  It  cannot  be  unbound,  my  autumn  sheaf :  — 
Then  let  it  stand,  a  relic  of  the  past, 
Its  mystery  all  its  own,  and  it  will  last." 


POEMS. 


A  STILL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

I    LOVE    to   wander   through    the   woodlands 
hoary, 

In  the  soft  gloom  of  an  autumnal  day, 
When  Summer  gathers  up  her  robes  of  glory, 

And,  like  a  dream  of  beauty,  glides  away. 

How  through   each   loved,  familiar  path   she 
lingers, 

Serenely  smiling  through  the  golden  mist, 
Tinting  the  wild  grape  with  her  dewy  fingers, 

Till  the  cool  emerald  turns  to  amethyst ; 

Kindling  the  faint  stars  of  the  hazel,  shining 
To  light  the  gloom  of  Autumn's  mouldering 

halls  ; 

With  hoary  plumes  the  clematis  entwining, 
Where,  o  'er  the  rock,  her  withered  garland 
falls. 


4  A   STILL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN. 

Warm  lights  are  on  the  sleepy  uplands  wan 
ing 
Beneath    dark    clouds    along    the    horizon 

rolled, 
Till  the  slant  sunbeams,  through  their  fringes 

raining, 
Bathe  all  the  hills  in  melancholy  gold. 

The  moist  winds  breathe  of  crisped  leaves  and 
flowers, 

In  the  damp  hollows  of  the  woodland  sown, 
Mingling  the  freshness  of  autumnal  showers 

With  spicy  airs  from  cedarn  alleys  blown. 

Beside  the  brook  and  on  the  umbered  meadow, 
Where    yellow   fern-tufts    fleck    the   faded 
ground, 

With  folded  lids  beneath  their  palmy  shadow, 
The  gentian  nods,  in  dewy  slumbers  bound. 

Upon    those   soft,    fringed   lids   the    bee    sits 

brooding, 

Like  a  fond  lover  loath  to  say  farewell  ; 
Or,  with  shut  wings,  through  silken  folds  in 
truding, 

Creeps  near  her  heart  his   drowsy  tale   to 
tell. 


A   STILL  DAY  IN  AUTUMN.  5 

The  little  birds  upon  the  hill-side  lonely 

Flit  noiselessly  along  from  spray  to  spray, 
Silent   as   a  sweet,  wandering   thought,   that 

only 

Shows   its   bright  wings   and   softly  glides 
away. 

The  scentless  flowers,  in   the  warm  sunlight 

dreaming, 

Forget  to  breathe  their  fullness  of  delight ; 
And  through  the  tranced  woods  soft  airs  are 

streaming, 
Still  as  the  dew-fall  of  the  summer  night. 

So,  in  my  heart,  a  sweet,  unwonted  feeling 
Stirs,  like  the  wind  in  ocean's  hollow  shell, 

Through  all  its  secret  chambers  sadly  stealing, 
Yet  finds  no  words  its  mystic  charm  to  tell. 


THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

THERE  's  a  flower  that  grows  by  the  greenwood 
tree, 

In  its  desolate  beauty  more  dear  to  me 

Than  all  that  bask  in  the  noontide  beam 

Through  the  long,  bright  summer  by  fount 
and  stream. 

Like  a  pure  hope  nursed  beneath  sorrow's 
wing, 

Its  timid  buds  from  the  cold  moss  spring ; 

Their  delicate  hues  like  the  pink  sea-shell, 

Or  the  shaded  blush  of  the  hyacinth's  bell ; 

Their  breath  more  sweet  than  the  faint  per 
fume 

That  breathes  from  the  bridal  orange-bloom. 

It  is  not  found  by  the  garden  wall, 

It  wreathes  no  brow  in  the  festal  hall ; 

But  it  dwells  in  the  depths  of  the  shadowy 
wood, 

And  shines,  like  a  star,  in  the  solitude. 

Never  did  numbers  its  name  prolong, 


THE    TRAILING  ARBUTUS.  J 

Ne'er  hath  it  floated  on  wings  of  song  ; 
Bard  and  minstrel  have  passed  it  by, 
And  left  it,  in  silence  and  shade,  to  die. 
But  with  joy  to  its  cradle  the  wild  bees  come, 
And  praise  its  beauty  with  drony  hum ; 
And  children  love,  in  the  season  of  spring, 
To  watch  for  its  earliest  blossoming. 

In  the  dewy  morn  of  an  April  day, 

When  the  traveler  lingers  along  the  way  ; 

When  the  sod  is  sprinkled  with  tender  green 

Where  rivulets  water  the  earth,  unseen  ; 

When  the  floating  fringe  on  the  maple's  crest 

Rivals  the  tulip's  crimson  vest, 

And   the   budding   leaves    of   the   birch-trees 

throw 

A  trembling  shade  on  the  turf  below ; 
When  my  flower  awakes  from  its  dreamy  rest, 
And  yields  its  lips  to  the  sweet  southwest, 
Then,  in  those  beautiful  days  of  spring, 
With  hearts  as  light  as  the  wild  bird's  wing, 
Flinging  their  tasks  and  their  toys  aside, 
Gay   little   groups   through   the   wood-paths 

glide, 

Peeping  and  peering  among  the  trees 
As  they  scent  its  breath  on  the  passing  breeze, 
Hunting  about,  among  lichens  gray 


8  THE    TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

And  the  tangled  mosses  beside  the  way, 
Till  they  catch  the  glance  of  its  quiet  eye, 
Like  light  that  breaks  through  a  cloudy  sky. 

For  me,  sweet  blossom,  thy  tendrils  cling 
Round  my  heart  of  hearts  as  in  childhood's 

spring  ; 
And  thy  breath,  as  it  floats  on  the  wandering 

air, 

Wakes  all  the  music  of  memory  there. 
Thou  recallest  the  time  when,  a  fearless  child, 
I  roved  all  day  through  the  wood-walks  wild, 
Seeking  thy  blossoms  by  bank  and  brae, 
Wherever  the  snow-drifts  had  melted  away. 

Now  as  I  linger,  mid  crowds  alone, 
Haunted  by  echoes  of  music  flown  ; 
When  the  shadows  deepen  around  my  way, 
And  the  light  of  reason  but  leads  astray  ; 
When  affections,  nurtured  with  fondest  care 
In  the  trusting  heart,  become  traitors  there  ; 
When,  weary  of  all  that  the  world  bestows, 
I  turn  to  nature  for  calm  repose, 
How  fain  my  spirit,  in  some  far  glen, 
Would  fold  her  wings  mid  thy  flowers  again  ! 


MOONRISE  IN  MAY. 

LONG  lights  gleam  o'er  the  western  wold, 
Kindling  the  brown  moss  into  gold  ; 
The  bright  day  fades  into  the  blue 
Of  the  far  hollows,  dim  with  dew ; 
The  breeze  comes  laden  with  perfume 
From  many  an  orchard  white  with  bloom, 
And  all  the  mellow  air  is  fraught 
With  beauty  beyond  Fancy's  thought. 

Outspread  beneath  me,  breathing  balm 
Into  the  evening's  golden  calm, 
Lie  trellised  gardens,  thickly  sown 
With  nodding  lilacs,  newly  blown  ; 
Borders  with  hyacinthus  plumed, 
And  beds  with  purple  pansies  gloomed ; 
Cold  snow-drops,  jonquils  pale  and  prim, 
And  flamy  tulips,  burning  dim 
In  the  cool  twilight,  till  they  fold 
In  sleep  their  oriflammes  of  gold. 


10  MOONRISE  IN  MAY. 

With  many  a  glimmering  interchange 
Of  moss  and  flowers  and  terraced  range, 
The  pleasant  garden  slopes  away 
Into  the  gloom  of  shadows  gray, 
Where,  darkly  green,  the  church-yard  lies, 
With  all  its  silent  memories  : 
There  the  first  violets  love  to  blow 
About  the  head-stones,  leaning  low  ; 
There,  from  the  golden  willows,  swing 
The  first  green  garlands  of  the  spring ; 
And  the  first  bluebird  builds  her  nest 
By  the  old  belfry's  umbered  crest. 

Beyond,  where  groups  of  stately  trees, 
Waiting  their  vernal  draperies, 
Stand  outlined  on  the  evening  sky, 
The  golden  lakes  of  sunset  lie  ; 
With  many-colored  isles  of  light, 
Purple  and  pearl  and  chrysolite, 
And  realms  of  cloud-land,  floating  far 
Beyond  the  horizon's  dusky  bar,  — 
Now  fading  from  the  lurid  bloom 
Of  twilight  to  a  silver  gloom, 
As  the  fair  moon's  ascending  beam 
Melts  all  things  to  a  holy  dream. 

So  fade  the  cloud-wreaths  from  my  soul 
Beneath  thy  solemn,  soft  control, 


MOONRISE  IN  MAY.  II 

Enchantress  of  the  stormy  seas, 
Priestess  of  Night's  high  mysteries  ! 
Thy  ray  can  pale  the  north  light's  plume, 
And,  where  the  throbbing  stars  illume 
With  their  far-palpitating  light 
The  holy  cloisters  of  the  night, 
Thy  presence  can  entrance  their  beams, 
And  lull  them  to  diviner  dreams. 
To  thee  belong  the  silent  spheres 
Of  memory,  —  the  enchanted  years 
Of  the  dead  Past,  —  the  shrouded  woes 
That  sleep  in  sculptural  repose. 

Thy  solemn  light  doth  interfuse 

The  magic  world  wherein  I  muse 

With  something  too  divinely  fair 

For  earthly  hope  to  harbor  there ; 

A  faith  that  reconciles  the  will 

Life's  mystic  sorrow  to  fulfill  ; 

A  benison  of  love  that  falls 

From  the  serene  and  silent  halls 

Of  night,  till  through  the  lonely  room 

A  heavenly  odor  seems  to  bloom, 

And  lilies  of  eternal  peace 

Glow  through  the  moonlight's  golden  fleece. 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

WHEN  the  peach  ripens  to  a  rosy  bloom, 
When  purple  grapes  glow  through  the  leafy 

gloom 
Of   trellised  vines,  bright  wonder,  thou   dost 

come, 

Cool  as  a  star  dropt  from  night's  azure  dome, 
To  light  the  early  morning,  that  doth  break 
More  softly  beautiful  for  thy  sweet  sake. 

Thy  fleeting  glory  to  my  fancy  seems 

Like   the   strange   flowers  we   gather  in   our 

dreams  ; 

Hovering  so  lightly  o'er  the  slender  stem, 
Wearing  so  meekly  the  proud  diadem 
Of  penciled  rays,  that  gave  the  name  you  bear 
Unblamed  amid  the  flowers,  from  year  to  year. 
The  tawny  lily,  flecked  with  jetty  studs, 
Pard-like,  and  dropping  through  long,  pendent 

buds, 


THE  MORNING-GLORY,  13 

Her  purple  anthers  ;  nor  the  poppy,  bowed 
In  languid  sleep,  enfolding  in  a  cloud 
Of  drowsy  odors  her  too  fervid  heart, 
Pierced  by  the  day-god's  barbed  and  burning 

dart; 

Nor  the  swart  sunflower,  her  dark  brows  en 
rolled 

With  their  broad  carcanets  of  living  gold,  — 
A  captive  princess,  following  the  car 
Of  her  proud  conqueror ;  nor  that  sweet  star, 
The   evening   primrose,    pallid   with    strange 

dreams 

Born  of  the  wan  moon's  melancholy  beams ; 
Nor  any  flower  that  doth  its  tendrils  twine 
Around  my  memory,  hath  a  charm  like  thine. 
Child  of  the  morning,  passionless  and  fair 
As  some  ethereal  creature  of  the  air, 
Waiting  not  for  the  bright  lord  of  the  hours 
To  weary  of  thy  bloom  in  sultry  bowers  ; 
Nor  like  the  summer  rose,  that  one  by  one, 
Yields  her  fair,  fragrant  petals  to  the  sun, 
Faint  with   the   envenomed  sweetness  of  his 

smile, 

That  doth  to  lingering  death  her  race  beguile ; 
But,  as  some  spirit  of  the  air  doth  fade 
Into  the  light  from  its  own  essence  rayed, 
So,  Glory  of  the  morning,  fair  and  cold, 


14  THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

Soon  in  thy  circling  halo  dost  thou  fold 
Thy  virgin  bloom,  and  from  our  vision  hide 
That   form    too   fair,    on    earth,    unsullied    to 

abide.1 
1849. 

1  "  The  disk  of  the  Convolvulus,  after  remaining  expanded 
for  a  few  hours,  gathers  itself  up  within  the  five  star-like 
rays  that  intersect  the  corolla  until  it  is  entirely  concealed 
from  sight."  —  ST.  PIERRE. 


WOOD-WALKS  IN  SPRING. 

"Pleasure  sits  in  the  flower  cups,  and  breathes  itself  out  in  fragrance." 

RAHEL. 

As  the  fabled  stone  into  music  woke 
When  the  morning  sun  o'er  the  marble  broke, 
So  wakes  the  heart  from  its  stern  repose, 
As,  o'er  brow   and   bosom,   the   spring  wind 

blows ; 

So  it  stirs  and  trembles,  as  each  low  sigh 
Of  the  breezy  south  comes  murmuring  by,  — 
Murmuring  by,  like  a  voice  of  love, 
Wooing  us  forth  amid  flowers  to  rove ; 
Breathing  of  meadow-paths,  thickly  sown 
With  pearls,  from  the  blossoming  fruit-trees 

blown, 

And  of  banks  that  slope  to  the  southern  sky, 
Where  languid  violets  love  to  lie. 

No  foliage  droops  o'er  the  wood-path  now, 
No  dark  vines,  swinging  from  bough  to  bough ; 
But  a  trembling  shadow  of  silvery  green 
Falls  through  the  young  leaf's  tender  screen, 


1 6  WOOD-WALKS  IN  SPRING. 

Like  the  hue  that  borders  the  snow-drop's  bell, 
Or  lines  the  lid  of  an  Indian  shell  ; 
And  a  fairy  light,  like  the  firefly's  glow, 
Flickers  and  fades  on  the  grass  below. 

There  the  pale  anemone  lifts  her  eye, 
To  look  at  the  clouds  as  they  wander  by  ; 
Or  lurks  in  the  shade  of  a  palmy  fern, 
To  gather  fresh  dews  in  her  waxen  urn. 
Where   the   moss   lies   thick   on   the    brown 

earth's  breast, 

The  shy  little  may-flower  weaves  her  nest ; 
But  the  south  wind  blows  o'er  the  fragrant 

loam, 
And  betrays  the  path  to  her  woodland  home. 

Already  the  green-budding,  birchen  spray 
Winnows  the  balm  from  the  breath  of  May  ; 
And  the  aspen  thrills  to  a  low,  sweet  tone 
From  the  reedy  bugle  of  Faunus  blown. 

In  the  tangled  coppice,  the  dwarf-oak  weaves 
Her  fringe-like  blossoms  and  crimson  leaves  ; 
The  sallows  their  delicate  buds  unfold 
Into  downy  feathers  bedropped  with  gold  ; 
While,  thick  as  stars  in  the  midnight  sky, 
In  the  dark,  wet  meadows  the  cowslips  lie. 

A  love-tint  flushes  the  wind-flower's  cheek, 
Rich  melodies  gush  from  the  violet's  beak  ; 
On  the  rifts  of  the  rock  the  wild  columbines 
grow, 


WOOD-WALKS  IN  SPRING.  \J 

Their  heavy  honey-cups  bending  low, 
As  a  heart  which  vague,  sweet  thoughts  op 
press 
Droops  with  its  burden  of  happiness. 

There   the   waters   drip   from    their  moss- 
rimmed  wells, 

With  a  sound  like  the  tinkling  of  silver  bells, 
Or  fall,  with  a  mellow  and  flute-like  flow, 
Through  the  channeled  clefts  of  the  rock  be 
low. 

Soft  music  gushes  in  every  tone, 
And  perfume  in  every  breeze  is  blown  ; 
The  flower  in  fragrance,  the  bird  in  song, 
The  glittering  wave  as  it  glides  along,  — 
All  breathe  the  incense  of  boundless  bliss, 
The  eloquent  music  of  happiness. 
Yet  sad  would  the  spring-time  of  Nature  seem 
To   the   soul   that   wanders  'mid   life's   dark 

dream, 

Its  glory  a  meteor  that  sweeps  the  sky, 
A  blossom  that  floats  on  the  storm-wind  by, 
If  it  woke  no  thought  of  that  starry  clime 
Beyond  the  desolate  seas  of  Time  ; 
If  it  nurtured  no  delicate  flower,  to  blow 
On  the  hills  where  the  palm  and  the  amaranth 
grow. 


ON  A  STATUE  OF  DAVID.1 

AY,  this  is  he  !  the  bold  and  gentle  boy  — 
That   in  lone   pastures  by  the   mountain's 

side 
Guarded  his  fold,  and  through  the  midnight 

sky 

Saw  on  the  blast  the  God  of  battles  ride  ; 
Beheld  his  bannered  armies  on  the  height, 
And  heard  their  clarion  sound  through  all  the 
stormy  night. 

Though  his  fair  locks  lie  all  unshorn,  and  bare 

To  the  bold  toying  of  the  mountain  wind, 
A  conscious  glory  haunts  the  o'ershadowing 

air, 
And  waits,  with  glittering  coil,  his  brows  to 

bind, 

While  his  proud  temples  bend  superbly  down, 
As  if  they  bore,  e'en  now,  the  burden  of  a 
crown. 

1  Suggested  by  a  model  executed  by  Thomas  F.  Hoppin,  of 
Providence. 


ON  A   STATUE   OF  DAVID.  19 

Though  a  stern  sorrow  slumbers  in  his  eyes, 
As  if  his  prophet  glance  foresaw  the  day 

When  the  dark  waters  o'er  his  soul  should  rise, 
And  friends  and  lovers  wander  far  away, 

Yet  the  graced  impress  of  that  floral  mouth 

Breathes  of  love's  golden  dream  and  the  vo 
luptuous  south. 

Peerless  in  beauty  as  the  prophet  star, 

That  in  the  dewy  trances  of  the  dawn, 
Floats  o'er  the  solitary  hills  afar, 

And  brings  sweet  tidings  of  the  lingering 

morn  ; 

Or,  weary  at  the  day-god's  loitering  wain, 
Strikes  on  the  harp  of  light  a  soft,  prelusive 
strain. 

So  his  wild  harp,  with  psaltery  and  shawm, 

Awoke  the  nations  in  thick  darkness  furled, 
While  mystic  winds  from  Gilead's  groves  of 

balm 
Wafted    its    sweet   hosannas    through   the 

world ; 
So,    when   the   day-spring  from   on  high,  he 

sang, 
With  joy  the  ancient  hills  and  lonely  valleys 

rang. 


2O  ON  A   STA  TUE   OF  DA  VID. 

Ay,  this  is  he  !  —  the  minstrel,  prophet,  king, 
Before  whose  arm  princes  and  warriors  sank ; 
Who  dwelt  beneath  Jehovah's  mighty  wing, 
And   from    the    "  river   of    his   pleasures  " 

drank  ; 

Or,  through  the  rent  pavilions  of  the  storm, 
Beheld  the  cloud  of  fire  that  veiled  his  awful 
form. 

And  now  he  stands  as  when  in  Elah's  vale, 

Where  warriors  set  the  battle  in  array, 
He  met  the  Titan  in  his  ponderous  mail, 
Whose  haughty  challenge  many  a  summer's 

day 
Rang  through  the  border  hills,  while  all  the 

host 

Of  faithless  Israel  heard,  and  trembled  at  his 
boast ; 

Till  the  slight  stripling  from  the  mountain  fold 
Stood,  all    unarmed,    amid    their   sounding 

shields, 

And  in  his  youth's  first  bloom,  devoutly  bold, 
Dared  the   grim   champion   of  a    thousand 

fields  ; 

So  stands  he  now,  as  in  Jehovah's  might 
Glorying,  he  met  the  foe  and  won  the  immor 
tal  fight. 


A  NIGHT  IN  AUGUST. 

"  And  thenceforth  all  that  once  was  fair 
Grew  fairer." 

How  softly  comes  the  summer  wind 

At  evening  o'er  the  hill, 
Forever  murmuring  of  thee 

When  busy  crowds  are  still ; 
The  way-side  flowers  seem  to  guess 
And  whisper  of  my  happiness. 

The  jasmine  twines  her  snowy  stars 

Into  a  fairer  wreath  ; 
The  lily  lifts  her  proud  tiars 

More  royally  beneath  ; 
The  snow-drop  with  her  fairy  bells, 
In  silver  time,  the  story  tells. 

Through  all  the  dusk  and  dewy  hours, 

The  banded  stars  above 
Are  singing,  in  their  airy  towers, 

The  melodies  of  love  ; 


22  A   NIGHT  IN  AUGUST. 

And  clouds  of  shadowy  silver  fly 

All  night,  like  doves,  athwart  the  sky. 

Fair  Dian  lulls  the  throbbing  stars 

Into  Elysian  dreams  ; 
And,  rippling  through  my  lattice  bars, 

Her  brooding  glory  streams 
Around  me,  like  the  golden  shower 
That  rained  through  Danae's  guarded  tower. 

And  when  the  waning  moon  doth  glide 

Into  the  valleys  gray  ; 
When,  like  the  music  of  a  dream, 

The  night-wind  dies  away  ; 
When  all  the  way-side  flowers  have  furled 
Their  wings,  with  morning  dews  impearled, 

A  low,  bewildering  melody 

Seems  murmuring  in  my  ear,  — 

Tones  such  as  in  the  twilight  wood 
The  aspen  thrills  to  hear, 

When  Faunus  slumbers  on  the  hill, 

And  all  the  entranced  boughs  are  still. 

August,  1848. 


TO  . 

EVA,  thy  beauty  comes  to  me 

To  solace  and  to  save  ; 
A  marvel  and  a  mystery, 

A  beacon  o'er  the  wave,  — 
A  star  above  the  jasper  sea, 

A  hope  beyond  the  grave. 

Oft,  when  thy  harp-tones  wild  and  sweet 

The  waves  of  passion  move, 
Methinks  pale  Sappho's  songs  I  hear 

Murmuring  of  Phaon's  love,  — 
Pale  Sappho's  passion  songs  I  hear 

Lamenting  her  lost  love. 

But  in  those  tender,  thoughtful  eyes, 

That  look  so  far  away, 
A  pleading  Pysche  bids  me  rise 

To  realms  of  purer  day,  — 
A  Psyche  soaring  to  the  skies, 

To  realms  of  perfect  day. 


FLORALIE. 

ALL  the  star-flowers  on  the  hill 
Nod  their  sweet  heads  wearily  ; 

Through  the  sad  September  day, 
To  my  lonely  heart  they  say, 
Floralie  is  far  away. 

All  the  little  birds  that  sang 
In  the  copse  so  cheerily, 

Fluttering  from  spray  to  spray, 
Seem  in  mournful  notes  to  say, 
Floralie  is  far  away  —  far  away. 

All  the  morning-stars  that  look 
Through  the  dawn  so  drearily, 

Turning  from  the  joyless  day, 
By  their  sadness  seem  to  say, 
Floralie  is  far  away,  — 
Far  away  —  far,  far  away. 


STANZAS  WITH  A  BRIDAL  RING. 

THE  young  moon  hides  her  virgin  heart 

Within  a  ring  of  gold ; 
So  doth  this  little  cycle  all 

My  bosom's  love  enfold, 
And  tell  the  tale  that  from  my  lips 

Seems  ever  half  untold  ; 
Like  the  rich  legend  of  the  East, 

That  weaves  and  interweaves 
Its  linked  sweetness,  or  the  rose 

That  hath  a  hundred  leaves. 

This  little  fairy  talisman 
Shall  love's  serene  Elysium  span  ; 
No  hope  shall  pass  its  mystic  round, 
And  all  within  be  holy  ground  : 
And  here,  as  in  the  elfin  ring 

Where  fairies  dance  by  night, 
The  green  oases  of  the  heart 

Shall  keep  their  verdure  bright, 
And  hope,  within  this  magic  round, 

Still  blossom  in  delight. 


THE  GOLDEN  BALL. 

A   TALE   OF    FAERIE. 

"  In  olden  dayes 

All  was  the  land  fulfilled  of  Faerie  — 
The  Elf  Queen,  with  her  jollie  companie, 
Danced  full  oft  in  many  a  grassy  mede. 
This  was  the  old  opinion,  as  I  rede.  — 
I  speak  of  many  hundred  years  ago  — 
But  now  can  no  man  see  the  Elves  mo." 

CHAUCKR. 

IN  the  hushed  and  silken  chamber 
Of  my  childhood,  Eleanore, 

When  the  daylight's  dying  amber 
Faded  on  the  dusky  floor  ; 

When  the  village  bells  were  ringing 
At  the  hour  of  evening  prayer, 

And  the  little  birds  were  winging 
Homeward  through  the  dewy  air, 

Wooing  me  to  twilight  slumbers, 
In  that  soft  and  balmy  clime, 

Often  have  I  heard  the  numbers 
Of  the  ancient  fairy-rhyme,  — 


THE   GOLDEN  BALL.  2/ 

Listened  to  the  mythic  stories 

Taught  when  fancy's  charmed  sway 

Filled  with  visionary  glories 
All  my  childhood's  golden  day. 

In  the  dull  and  drear  December, 
Sitting  by  the  hearth-light's  gleam, 

Often  do  I  still  remember 

Tales  that  haunt  me  like  a  dream, 

Often  I  recall  the  story 

Of  the  outcast  child  forlorn, 
Doomed  to  roam  in  forest  hoary, 

From  the  step-dame's  cruel  scorn. 

Long  she  wandered  sad  and  lonely, 
Till  the  daylight's  dying  bloom 

Left  one  silver  planet  only 

Trembling  through  the  twilight  gloom. 

Orphaned  in  this  world  of  sorrow, 
Chased  by  savage  beasts  of  prey  ; 

Doomed,  from  frantic  fears,  to  borrow 
Strength  to  bear  her  on  her  way. 

Still  she  wandered,  faint  and  weary, 
Through  the  forest  wild  and  wide, 


28  THE   GOLDEN  BALL. 

Till  her  thoughts  grew  dark  and  dreary, 
And  her  heart  with  terror  died. 


When  a  gracious  fairy,  wandering 
Forth  to  greet  the  evening  star, 

Found  her  near  a  torrent,  pondering 
How  to  pass  its  watery  bar. 

Tenderly  the  gentle  stranger 

Led  her  to  the  foaming  fall ; 
There,  to  guide  her  feet  from  danger, 

Down  she  flung  a  Golden  Ball. 

Shrined  within  its  charmed  hollow 

Many  a  mystic  virtue  lay  ; 
Safely  might  her  footsteps  follow 

Wheresoe'er  it  led  the  way. 

Throbbed  her  heart  with  fear  and  wonder, 

As  the  magic  globe  of  gold 
Onward  through  the  rushing  thunder 

Of  the  stormy  torrent  rolled  : 

On  where  boundless  forests,  burning, 
Scorched  the  air  and  scathed  the  sight, 

From  earth's  livid  features  turning 
Back  the  solemn  pall  of  night : 


THE   GOLDEN  BALL. 

Still  on  golden  axis  rolling, 

Onward,  onward,  still  it  sped,  — 

Still  the  maid,  her  fears  controlling, 
Fleetly  following  as  it  fled  : 

While  the  raging  waters  bore  her 
Safely  o'er  their  hollow  way, 

And  the  flame-lights  flashing  o'er  her 
Paled  like  stars  at  break  of  day,  — 

Paled  before  her  virgin  honor, 
Paled  before  her  love  and  truth  ; 

Savage  natures,  gazing  on  her, 
Turned  to  pity  and  to  ruth. 

So  she  passed  through  flood  and  forest, 
Passed  the  ogre's  yawning  gate  ; 

And  when  danger  threatened  sorest 
Calmly  trod  the  path  of  fate. 

Till  the  night  that  seemed  so  dreary 
Grew  more  beautiful  than  day  ; 

And  her  little  feet,  so  weary, 
Glided  gently  on  their  way,  — 

Glided  o'er  the  grassy  meadows 

Steeped  in  perfume,  starred  with  dew, 


3<D  THE   GOLDEN  BALL. 

Glided  'neath  the  forest  shadows 

Till  the  moonlight,  slanting  through, 

Gleamed  athwart  a  fountain  sleeping 

Calmly  in  its  hollow  cells, 
Where  were  little  fishes  leaping 

All  about  the  lily-bells. 

Soon  the  lilies  seemed  to  shiver, 
And  a  tremor  shook  the  air  — 

Curdled  all  the  sleeping  river  — 
Woke  the  thunder  in  its  lair  ! 

Lo  !  a  fish  from  out  the  water 

Rising  oped  its  rosy  gills  ; 
T  was  the  gracious  fairy's  daughter, 

And  the  air  with  music  thrills, 

As  a  sudden  glory,  bending 

O'er  the  fountain's  mystic  gleam, 

Changed  her  to  a  form  transcending 
Fantasy's  divinest  dream. 

Water  blooms,  with  olive  twining, 
Crowned  a  brow  serenely  sweet ; 

Robes,  like  woven  lilies  shining, 
Flowed  in  folds  about  her  feet. 


THE   GOLDEN  BALL.  3! 

With  a  look  of  soft  imploring, 

Thus  she  spoke,  in  rippling  tones, 

Sweet  as  summer  waters  pouring 
Over  reeds  and  pebble-stones  : 

"  Thou  hast  conquered,  little  stranger  ! 

All  thy  bitter  trials  past, 
Safe,  through  sorrow  and  through  danger, 
Thou  hast  won  the  goal  at  last. 

"  Lift  me  from  the  silent  water, 

Let  me  on  thy  bosom  lie ; 
For  I  am  a  fairy's  daughter 
Thralled  by  cruel  sorcery. 

"  Doomed  beneath  the  wave  forever, 
Like  the  virgin  Truth,  to  dwell, 
Till  a  mortal  hand  shall  sever, 
Link  by  link,  the  charmed  spell ; 

"  Till  a  faithful  heart  shall  fold  me 

To  its  home  of  truth  and  love,  — 
So  the  ancient  Fates  have  told  me, 
And  the  answering  stars  approve. 

"  Lift  me,  then,  from  out  the  river, 
Now  my  charmed  life  doth  cease  ; 


32  THE   GOLDEN  BALL. 

Henceforth  I  am  thine  forever ; 
Guard  me,  for  my  name  is  Peace." 


Thus,  dear  child,  the  mythic  story 
Chimes  to  truth's  unerring  strain, 

As  the  moon,  in  softened  glory, 
Sings  the  day-star's  sweet  refrain. 

Thus,  though  step-dame  Nature  chide  thee, 
And  the  snares  of  passion  thrall, 

Unto  heavenly  Peace  shall  guide  thee 
FAITH'S  unerring  GOLDEN  BALL. 


ON  FANNIE'S  CHARM  LAMP. 

WITHIN  this  little  fairy  urn 

No  earthly  naphthas  blaze  and  burn  ; 
But  spells  of  necromantic  power 

Lurk  in  the  little  silver  flower  : 
It  is  the  very  lamp,  I  ween, 
The  wondrous  lamp  of  Aladeen. 

And  he  who  did  the  gift  impart 
To  the  fair  regent  of  his  heart, 

Through  life  his  folly  shall  deplore, 
Slave  of  the  lamp  for  evermore  ; 

Slave  to  the  lady  and  the  queen 

Who  holds  the  lamp  of  Aladeen. 


IN  APRIL'S  DIM  AND  SHOWERY  NIGHTS. 

IN  April's  dim  and  showery  nights, 
When  music  melts  along  the  air, 

And  Memory  wakens  at  the  kiss 

Of  wandering  perfumes,  faint  and  rare  ; 

Sweet,  spring-time  perfumes,  such  as  won 
Proserpina  from  realms  of  gloom, 

To  bathe  her  bright  locks  in  the  sun, 
Or  bind  them  with  the  pansy's  bloom  ; 

When  light  winds  rift  the  fragrant  bowers 
Where  orchards  shed  their  floral  wreath, 

Strewing  the  turf  with  starry  flowers, 
And  dropping  pearls  at  every  breath  ; 

When,  all  night  long,  the  boughs  are  stirred 
With  fitful  warblings  from  the  nest, 

And  the  heart  flutters,  like  a  bird, 
With  its  sweet,  passionless  unrest ; 


APRIL  NIGHTS.  35 

Oh  !  then,  beloved,  I  think  on  thee, 
And  on  that  life,  so  strangely  fair, 

Ere  yet  one  cloud  of  memory 

Had  gathered  in  hope's  golden  air. 

I  think  on  thee  and  thy  lone  grave 
On  the  green  hill-side,  far  away ; 

I  see  the  wilding  flowers  that  wave 
Around  thee,  as  the  night  winds  sway. 

And  still,  though  only  clouds  remain 
On  life's  horizon,  cold  and  drear, 

The  dream  of  youth  returns  again 
With  the  sweet  promise  of  the  year. 

April,  1848. 


ON  A  MAGDALEN  BY  CARLO   DOLCE. 

THOUGH  every  line  of  that  sweet,  thoughtful 

face 

Seems  touched  by  sorrow  to  a  softer  grace  ; 
Though  o'er  thy  cheek's  young  bloom  a  blight 

hath  passed, 
And  dimmed  its  pensive  beauty,  —  from  thine 

eye, 
With  the  soft  gloom  of  gathering  tears  o'er- 

cast, 

Doth  love  shine  forth,  o'er  all,  triumphantly  ; 
A  light  which  shame  nor  sorrow  could  impair, 
Unquenched,  undimmed,  through  years  of  lone 

despair. 

O  love,  immortal  love  !  not  all  in  vain 

The  young  heart  wastes  beneath  life's  weary 

chain, 

Filled  with  thy  bright  ideal,  —  whose  excess 
Of  beauty  mocks  our  utter  loneliness. 


ON  A  MAGDALEN  BY  CARLO  DOLCE.        37 

The  weary  bark,  long  tossing  on  the  shore, 
Shall  find  its  haven  when  the  storm  is  o'er ; 
The  wandering  bee  its  hive,  the  bird  its  nest, 
And  the  lone  heart  of  love  in  heaven  its  home 
of  rest. 


SUMMER'S  CALL  TO  THE  LITTLE 
ORPHAN. 

"  Viens  j'ai  des  fruits  d'or,  j'ai  des  roses  ; 
J'en  remplirai  tes  petits  bras." 

VICTOR  HUGO. 

THE  summer  skies  are  darkly  blue, 
The  days  are  still  and  bright, 

And  Evening  trails  her  robes  of  gold 
Through  the  dim  halls  of  Night. 

Then,  when  the  little  orphan  wakes, 
A  low  voice  whispers,  "  Come, 

And  all  day  wander  at  thy  will 
Beneath  my  azure  dome. 

"  Beneath  my  vaulted,  azure  dome, 
Through  all  my  flowery  lands, 
No  higher  than  the  lowly  thatch 
The  royal  palace  stands. 

"  I'll  fill  thy  little  longing  arms 

With  fruits  and  wilding  flowers  ; 


SUMMER'S  CALL  TO  THE  LITTLE  ORPHAN.     39 

I  '11  tell  thee  tales  of  fairy-land 
In  the  long  twilight  hours." 

The  orphan  hears  that  wooing  voice  ; 

Awhile  he  softly  broods,  — 
Then  hastens  down  the  sunny  slopes, 

Into  the  twilight  woods. 

The  waving  branches  murmur 

Strange  secrets  in  his  ear, 
But  the  nodding  flowers  welcome  him, 

And  whisper,  "  Never  fear." 

He  sees  the  squirrel  peeping 
From  the  coverts  cool  and  dim, 

And  the  water-lilies  sleeping 
Along  the  fountain's  brim. 

He  hears  the  wild  bee  humming 
•  In  the  roses  by  the  rill ; 
He  nestles  in  the  hollow  tree, 
He  clambers  up  the  hill. 

He  weaves  a  little  basket 
From  the  willow  as  he  goes, 

And  he  heaps  it  up  with  blackberries, 
And  blueberries,  and  sloes. 


40    SUMMER'S  CALL  TO  THE  LITTLE  ORPHAN. 

The  brook  stays  him,  at  the  crossing, 

In  its  waters  cool  and  sweet, 
And  the  pebbles  leap  around  him, 

And  frolic  at  his  feet. 

Half  fearfully,  half  joyfully, 

He  treads  the  forest  dim, 
Till  he  hears  the  wood-birds  chaunting 

Their  holy,  sylvan  hymn. 

Then,  in  the  cool  of  eventide, 

The  Father's  voice  he  hears, 
As  men  heard  it  in  the  Eden 

Of  Earth's  paradisal  years. 

The  redbird  furls  her  shining  wing, 

The  squirrel  seeks  his  lair  ; 
The  flowers,  folding  up  their  leaves, 

Incline  their  heads  in  prayer. 

The  orphan  feels  a  brooding  calm 

O'er  all  his  senses  creep  ; 
And,  by  the  little  ground-bird's  nest, 

He  lays  him  down  to  sleep. 

The  Moon  comes  gliding  through  the  trees, 
And  softly  stoops  to  spread 


SUMMERS  CALL  TO  THE  LITTLE  ORPHAN.     41 

Her  dainty  silver  kirtle 
Upon  his  grassy  bed. 

The  drowsy  Night-wind  murmuring 
Its  quaint  old  tunes  the  while  ; 

Till  Morning  wakes  him  with  a  song, 
And  greets  him  with  a  smile. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER. 

FAREWELL  the  forest  shade,  the  twilight  grove, 
The  turfy  path  with  fern  and  flowers  inwove, 
Where  through  long  summer  days  I  wandered 

far, 

Till  warned  of  Evening  by  her  folding  star. 
No  more  I  linger  by  the  fountain's  play, 
Where   arching    boughs    shut   out   the   sultry- 
ray, 

Making  at  noontide  hours  a  dewy  gloom 
O'er  the  moist  marge,  where  weeds  and  wild 

flowers  bloom  ; 

Till,  from  the  western  sun,  a  glancing  flood 
Of  arrowy  radiance  filled  the  twilight  wood, 
Glinting  athwart  each  leafy,  verdant  fold, 
And  flecking  all  the  turf  with  drops  of  gold. 

Sweet  sang  the  wild  bird  on  the  waving  bough 
WThere  cold  November  winds  are  wailing  now ; 
The  chirp  of  insects  on  the  sunny  lea, 
And  the  low,  drowsy  bugle  of  the  bee, 


LINES   WRITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER.          43 

Are  silent  all ;  closed  is  their  vesper  lay, 
Borne  by  the  breeze  of  Autumn  far  away. 
Yet  still  the  withered  heath  I  love  to  rove, 
The   bare,   brown   meadow,    and    the    leafless 

grove  ; 

Still  love  to  tread  the  bleak  hill's  rocky  side, 
Where  nodding  asters  wave  in  purple  pride, 
Or,  from  its  summit,  listen  to  the  flow 
Of  the  dark  waters,  booming  far  below. 
Still   through   the   tangling,  pathless    copse  I 

stray, 
Where  sere  and  rustling  leaves   obstruct   the 

way, 

To  find  the  last,  pale  blossom  of  the  year, 
That  strangely  blooms  when   all   is  dark  and 

drear ; 
The   wild    witch-hazel,   fraught    with    mystic 

power 

To  ban  or  bless,  as  sorcery  rules  the  hour. 
Then,  homeward  wending,  through  the  dusky 

vale, 

Where  winding  rills  their  evening  damps  ex 
hale, 

Pause  by  the  dark  pool,  in  whose  sleeping  wave 
Pale  Dian  loves  her  golden  locks  to  lave ; 
As  when  she  stole  upon  Endymion's  rest, 
And  his  young  dreams  with  heavenly  beauty 

blest. 


44  LINES  WRITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER. 

And  thou,  "  stern  ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Cold,  cheerless  Winter,  hath  thy  wild  career 
No  sweet,  peculiar  pleasures  for  the  heart, 
That  can  ideal  worth  to  rudest  forms  impart  ? 
When,   through   thy   long,   dark   nights,    cold 

sleet  and  rain 

Patter  and  plash  against  the  frosty  pane, 
Warm  curtained  from  the  storm,  I  love  to  lie, 
Wakeful,  and  listening  to  the  lullaby 
Of  fitful  winds,  that  as  they  rise  and  fall 
Send  hollow  murmurs  through  the  echoing  hall. 

Oft,  by  the  blazing  hearth  at  even-tide, 
I  love  to  see  the  fitful  shadows  glide, 
In  flickering  motion,  o'er  the  illumined  wall, 
Till  slumber's  honey-dew  my  senses  thrall  ; 
Then,  while  in  dreamy  consciousness,  I  lie 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  fairy  fantasy 
Culls,  from  the  golden  past,  a  treasured  store, 
And  weaves  a  dream  so  sweet,  hope  could  not 
ask  for  more. 

In  the  cold  splendor  of  a  frosty  night, 
When  blazing  stars  burn  with  intenser  light 
Through  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  ;  when  the 

keen  air 

Sculptures  in  bolder  lines  the  uplands  bare  ; 
When  sleeps  the  shrouded   earth,  in   solemn 
trance, 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  NOVEMBER.  45 

Beneath  the  wan  moon's  melancholy  glance  ; 
I  love  to  mark  earth's  sister  planets  rise, 
And  in  pale  beauty  tread  the  midnight  skies  ; 
Where,    like   lone   pilgrims,    constant   as   the 

night, 
They  fill  their  dark  urns  from  the  fount  of  light. 

I  love  the  Borealis  flames  that  fly, 
Fitful  and  wild,  athwart  the  northern  sky  ; 
The  storied  constellations,  like  a  page 
Fraught  with  the  wonders  of  a  former  age, 
Where   monsters   grim,  gorgons,  and   hydras 

rise, 
And  "  gods  and  heroes  blaze  along  the  skies." 

Thus  Nature's  music,  various  as  the  hour, 
Solemn  or  sweet,  hath  ever  mystic  power 
Still  to  preserve  the  unperverted  heart 
Awake  to  love  and  beauty  ;  to  impart 
Treasures    of   thought   and  feeling,  pure  and 

deep, 
That   aid   the   doubting   soul   its  heavenward 

course  to  keep. 


EVENING    ON    THE    BANKS    OF    THE 
MOSHASSUCK. 

"  Now  to  the  sessions  of  sweet,  silent  thought, 
I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past." 

SHAKESPEARE'S  Si>n:itts. 

AGAIN  September's  golden  day, 

Serenely  still,  intensely  bright, 
Fades  on  the  umbered  hills  away, 

And  melts  into  the  coming  night. 
Again  Moshassuck's  silver  tide 
Reflects  each  green  herb  on  its  side, 
Each  tasseled  wreath  and  tangling  vine, 
Whose  tendrils  o'er  its  margin  twine. 

And  standing  on  its  velvet  shore, 

Where  yester-night,  with  thee,  I  stood, 
I  trace  its  devious  course  once  more, 

Far  winding  on,  through  vale  and  wood  : 
Now  glimmering  through  yon  golden  mist, 
By  the  last,  glinting  sunbeams  kissed  ; 
Now  lost,  where  lengthening  shadows  fall 
From  hazel  copse  and  moss-fringed  wall 


EVENING   ON  THE  MOSHASSUCK.          47 

Near  where  yon  rocks  the  stream  inurn, 

The  lonely  gentian  blossoms  still ; 
Still  wave  the  star-flower  and  the  fern 

O'er  the  soft  outline  of  the  hill ; 
While,  far  aloft,  where  pine-trees  throw 
Their  shade  athwart  the  sunset  glow, 
Thin  vapors  cloud  the  illumined  air, 
And  parting  daylight  lingers  there. 

But  ah,  no  longer  thou  art  near, 

This  varied  loveliness  to  see  ; 
And  I,  though  fondly  lingering  here, 

To-night,  can  only  think  on  thee. 
The  flowers  thy  gentle  hand  caressed 
Still  lie  unwithered  on  my  breast ; 
And  still  thy  footsteps  print  the  shore, 
Where  thou  and  I  may  rove  no  more. 

Again  I  hear  the  murmuring  fall 
Of  water  from  some  distant  dell  ; 

The  beetle's  hum,  the  cricket's  call, 
And,  far  away,  that  evening  bell. 

Again,  again,  those  sounds  I  hear  ; 

But  oh,  how  desolate  and  drear 

They  seem  to-night !  how  like  a  knell 

The  music  of  that  evening  bell  ! 


48          EVENING   ON  THE  MOSHASSUCK. 

Again  the  new  moon  in  the  west, 
Scarce  seen  upon  yon  golden  sky, 

Hangs  o'er  the  mountain's  purple  crest, 
With  one  pale  planet  trembling  nigh  ; 

And  beautiful  her  pearly  light 

As  when  we  blessed  its  beams  last  night ; 

But  thou  art  on  the  far  blue  sea, 

And  I  can  only  think  on  thee. 

September,  1839. 


THE  GARDEN  SEPULCHRE. 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    CONSECRATION    OF    THK    CEMETERY    AT    SWAN 
POINT,   R.    I. 

IN  the  faith  of  Him  who  saw 

The  eternal  morning  rise, 
Through  the  open  gates  of  pearl, 

On  the  hills  of  Paradise,  — 

Looking  to  the  promised  land, 
Saw  the  verdant  palms,  that  wave 

In  the  calm  and  lustrous  air, 

Through  the  shadows  of  the  grave  ; 

In  his  name  whose  deathless  love, 

With  a  glory  all  divine, 
Filled  the  garden  sepulchre 

Far  away  in  Palestine  ; 

We  would  consecrate  a  place 

Where  our  loved  ones  may  repose, 

When  the  storms  of  life  are  past, 
And  the  weary  eyelids  close  ; 
4 


50  THE   GARDEN  SEPULCHRE. 

Fairer  than  a  festal  hall 

Wreath  the  chambers  of  their  rest, 
Sacred  to  the  tears  that  fall 

O'er  the  slumbers  of  the  blest,  — 

Sacred  to  the  hopes  that  rise 

Heavenward  from  this  vale  of  tears, 

Soaring,  with  unwearied  wing, 
Through  the  illimitable  years. 

Each  sweet  nursling  of  the  spring 
Here  shall  weep  its  fresh'ning  dews  ; 

Here  its  fragile  censer  swing, 
And  all  its  fragrant  soul  diffuse. 

The  lily,  in  her  white  symar, 
Fondly  o'er  the  turf  shall  wave  ; 

Asphodels  and  violets  star 

All  the  greensward  of  the  grave. 

Here  the  pale  anemone 

In  the  April  breeze  shall  nod, 

And  the  may-flower  weave  her  blooms 
Through  and  through  the  velvet  sod. 

Bending  by  the  storied  urn, 
Purple  eglantine  shall  blow, 


THE   GARDEN  SEPULCHRE,  5  I 

Till  the  pallid  marble  takes, 
From  her  cheek,  a  tender  glow. 

Where  the  folding  branches  close 

In  a  verdant  coronal, 
Through  their  dim  and  dreaming  boughs 

Faintly  shall  the  sunbeams  fall. 

Memories,  mournful,  yet  how  sweet  ! 

Here  shall  weave  their  mystic  spell ; 
Angels  tread,  with  silent  feet, 

Paths  where  love  and  sorrow  dwell. 

No  rude  sound  of  earth  shall  break 

The  dim  quiet,  evermore  ; 
But  the  winds  and  waves  shall  chant 

A  requiem  on  the  lonely  shore. 

Flitting  through  the  laurel's  gloom, 
The  humming-bird  shall  wander  by, 

Winnowing  the  floral  bloom 
From  cups  of  wreathed  ivory. 

The  bee  shall  wind  his  fairy  horn, 
Faintly  murmuring  on  the  ear  ; 

Sounds  that  seem  of  silence  born 
Soothe  the  soul  of  sadness  here ; 


52  THE   GARDEN  SEPULCHRE. 

Many  a  low  and  mystic  word, 
From  the  realm  of  shadows  sent, 

In  the  busy  throng  unheard, 
Make  the  silence  eloquent : 

Words  of  sweetest  promise,  spoken 

Only  where  the  dirge  is  sung  ; 
Where  the  golden  bowl  is  broken, 

And  the  silver  chord  unstrung. 

& 

Faith  shall,  with  uplifted  eye, 
All  the  solitude  illume  ; 

Hope  and  Memory  shall  sit, 
Shining  seraphs,  by  the  tomb. 


A  DAY  OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Yet  one  more  smile,  departing  distant  sun, 
Ere  o'er  the  frozen  earth  the  loud  winds  run, 
And  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare."  — BRYANT. 

A  DAY  of  golden  beauty  !     Through  the  night 
The  hoar-frost  gathered,  o'er  each  leaf  and 

spray 
Weaving  its  filmy  net-work  ;  thin  and  bright, 

And  shimmering  like  silver  in  the  ray 
Of  the  soft,  sunny  morning  ;  turf  and  tree 
Pranct  in  its  delicate  embroidery, 
And  every  withered  stump  and  mossy  stone, 
With  gems  incrusted  and  with  seed-pearl  sown  ; 
While  in  the  hedge  the  frosted  berries  glow, 
The  scarlet  holly  and  the  purple  sloe, 
And  all  is  gorgeous,  fairy-like,  and  frail 
As  the  famed  gardens  of  the  Arabian  tale. 

How  soft  and  still  the  autumnal  landscape  lies, 
Calmly  outspread  beneath  the  smiling  skies  ; 
As  if  the  earth,  in  prodigal  array 
Of  gems  and  broidered  robes,  kept  holiday, 


54        A  DAY  OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Her  harvest  yielded  and  her  work  all  done, 
Basking  in  beauty  'neath  the  Autumn  sun  ! 

Yet  once   more,  through  the  soft   and   balmy 

day, 

Up  the  brown  hill-side,  by  the  woodland  way, 
Far  let  us  rove,  through  dreamy  solitudes 
Where  "Autumn's    smile   beams    through  the 

yellow  woods," 

Fondly  retracing  each  sweet  summer  haunt 
And   sylvan    pathway  ;    where   the   sunbeams 

slant 

Through  yonder  copse,  kindling  the  yellow  stars 
Of  the  witch-hazel  with  their  golden  bars ; 
Or,  lingering  down  this  dim  and  shadowy  lane, 
Where    still   the  damp  sod  wears  an  emerald 

stain, 
Though  ripe  brown  nuts  hang  clustering  in  the 

hedge, 

And  the  rude  barberry,  o'er  yon  rocky  ledge, 
Droops   with   its   pendant    corals.     When   the 

showers 

Of  April  clothed  this  winding  path  with  flowers, 
Here  oft  we  sought  the  violet,  as  it  lay 
Buried  in  beds  of  moss  and  lichens  gray ; 
And  still  the  aster  greets  us,  as  we  pass, 
With  her  faint  smile,  —  among  the  withered 

grass 


A   DAY  OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER.         55 

Beside  the  way,  lingering  as  loath  of  heart, 
Like  me,  from  these  sweet  solitudes  to  part. 

Now  seek  we  the  dank  borders  of  the  stream, 
Where  the  tall  fern-tufts  shed  a  tawny  gleam 
Over  the  water  from  their  saffron  plumes  ; 
And,  clustering  near,  the  modest  gentian  blooms 
Lonely  around,  hallowed  by  sweetest  song, 
The  last  and  loveliest  of  the  floral  throng. 
Yet  here  we  may  not  linger,  for  behold 
Where  the  stream  widens,  like  a  sea  of  gold 
Outspreading  far  before  us  !     All  around 
Steep,   wooded   heights   and    sloping    uplands 

bound 

The  sheltered  scene ;  along  the  distant  shore, 
Through  colored  woods,  the  glinting  sunbeams 

pour, 

Touching  their  foliage  with  a  thousand  shades 
And  hues  of  beauty,  as  the  red  light  fades 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  fleecy  shroud, 
Or,  through  the  rifted  silver  of  the  cloud, 
Pours  down  a  brighter  gleam.     Gray  willows 

lave 

Their  pendant  branches  in  the  crystal  wave, 
And  slender  birch-trees  o'er  its  banks  incline, 
Whose  tall,  slight  stems  across  the  water  shine 


56         A   DAY  OF  THE  INDIAN-  SUMMER. 

Like  shafts  of  silver ;  there  the  tawny  elm,  — 
The  fairest  subject  of  the  sylvan  realm,  — 
The  tufted  pine-tree,  and  the  cedar  dark, 
And  the  young  chestnut,  its  smooth,  polished 

bark 

Gleaming  like  porphyry  in  the  yellow  light  ; 
The  dark  brown  oak  and  the  rich  maple,  dight 
In  robes  of  scarlet,  —  all  are  standing  there, 
So  still,  so  calm,  in  the  soft,  misty  air, 
That  not  a  leaf  is  stirring  ;  not  a  sound 
Startles  the  deep  repose  that  broods  around, 
Save  when  the  robin's  melancholy  song 
Is  heard  amid  the  coppice,  and  along 
The  sunny  side  of  yonder  moss-grown  wall 
That  skirts  our  path  the  cricket's  chirping  call, 
Or  the  fond  murmur  of  the  drowsy  bee 
O'er  some  lone  floweret  on  the  sunny  lea, 
And,  heard  at  intervals,  a  pattering  sound 
Of  ripened  acorns  rustling  to  the  ground 
Through    the    crisp,   withered    leaves.      How 

lonely  all, 

How  calmly  beautiful !     Long  shadows  fall 
More  darkly  o'er  the  wave  as  day  declines, 
Yet  from  the  west  a  deeper  glory  shines  ; 
While  every  crested  hill  and  rocky  height 
Each  moment  varies  in  the  kindling  light 


A   DAY  OF  THE  INDIAN  SUMMER.         57 

To    some    new    form     of     beauty,    changing 

through 

All  shades  and  colors  of  the  rainbow's  hue, 
The  last  still  loveliest,  till  the  gorgeous  day 
Melts  in  a  flood  of  golden  light  away  ; 
And  all  is  o'er.     Before  to-morrow's  sun 
Cold  winds  may  rise,  and  shrouding  shadows 

dun 

Obscure  the  scene ;  yet  shall  these  fading  hues 
And  fleeting  forms  their  loveliness  transfuse 
Into  the  mind,  and  memory  shall  burn 
The  painting  in  on  her  enameled  urn 
In  undecaying  colors.     When  the  blast 
Hurtles  around  and  snows  are  gathering  fast, 
When  musing  sadly  by  the  twilight  hearth, 
Or   lonely   wandering   through   life's   crowded 

path, 

Its  quiet  beauty,  rising  through  the  gloom, 
Shall  soothe  the  languid  spirits  and  illume 
The  drooping  fancy,  —  winning  back  the  soul 
To  cheerful  thoughts  through  Nature's  sweet 

control. 


A  NOVEMBER  LANDSCAPE. 

How  like  a  rich  and  gorgeous  picture  hung 
In  memory's  storied  hall  seems  that  fair  scene 
O'er  which  long   years    their  mellowing   tints 

have  flung ! 

The  way-side  flowers  had  faded  one  by  one, 
Hoar  were  the   hills,  the  meadows  drear  and 

dun, 
When    homeward  wending,  'neath    the   dusky 

screen 

Of  the  autumnal  woods,  at  close  of  day, 
As  o'er  a  pine-clad  height  my  pathway  lay, 
Lo  !  at  a  sudden  turn,  the  vale  below 
Lay  far  outspread,  all  flushed  with  purple  light ; 
Gray  rocks  and  umbered  woods  gave  back  the 

glow 

Of  the  last  day-beams,  fading  into  night ; 
While   down  a  glen  where   dark    Moshassuck 

flows, 
With  all  its  kindling  lamps   the   distant   city 

rose. 


A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

IN  the  soft  gloom  of  Summer's  balmy  eve, 
When  from  the  lingering  glances  of  the  Sun 
The  sad  Earth  turns  away  her  blushing  cheek, 
Mantling  its  glow  in  twilight's  shadowy  veil, 
Oft  'mid  the  falling  dews  I  love  to  stray 
Onward    and    onward,   through    the    pleasant 

fields, 

Far  up  the  lilied  borders  of  the  stream, 
To  this  green,  silent  hollow  of  the  hills, 
Endeared  by  thronging  memories  of  the  past. 

Oft  have  I  lingered  on  this  rustic  bridge, 
To  view  the  limpid  waters  winding  on 
Under  dim-vaulted  woods,  whose  woven  boughs 
Of  beech  and  maple  and  broad  sycamore 
Throw   their   soft,   moving   shadows    o'er   the 

wave ; 
While  blossomed  vines,  dropped  to  the  water's 

brim, 
Hang  idly  swaying  in  the  summer  wind. 


6O  A   HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  birds  that  wander  through  the  twilight 

heaven 
Are   mirrored   far   beneath    me  ;    and  .  young 

leaves 

That  tremble  on  the  birch-tree's  silver  boughs, 
In  the  cool  wave  reflected,  gleam  below, 
Like  twinkling  stars  athwart  the  verdant  gloom. 

A  sound  of  rippling  waters  rises  sweet 
Amid  the  silence  ;  and  the  western  breeze, 
Sighing    through    sedges    and    low   meadow- 
blooms, 
Comes  wafting  gentle  thoughts  from  Memory's 

land, 
And    wakes    the    long-hushed    music    of    the 

heart. 
Oft   dewy  spring   hath  brimmed  the   brook 

with  showers  ; 
Oft  hath  the  long,  bright  summer  fringed  its 

banks 
With   breathing   blossoms  ;    and   the   autumn 

sun 

Shed  mellow  hues  o'er  all  its  wooded  shores, 
Since  first  I  trod  these  paths,  in  youth's  sweet 

prime, 

With  loved  ones  whom  Time's  desolating  wave 
Hath  wafted  now  forever  from  my  side. 


A   HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.  6 1 

Long  years  have  passed,  and  on  its  flowery 

brink, 

Bereft  and  sorrow-taught,  alone  I  stand, 
Listening  the  hollow  music  of  the  wind. 
Alone  —  alone  :  the  stars  are  far  away, 
And   wild    clouds    wander    o'er   the    face    of 

heaven ; 
But   still   the   green  earth  wears  her  summer 

crown, 
And  whispers  hope  through  all  her  breathing 

flowers. 

Not  all  in  vain  the  vision  of  our  youth, 
The  apocalypse  of  beauty  and  of  love, 
The   stag-like   heart   of   hope.      Life's   mystic 

dream 

The  soul  shall  yet  interpret ;  to  our  prayer 
The  Isis  veil  be  lifted.     Though  we  pine 
E'en  'mid  the  ungathered  roses  of  our  youth, 
Pierced  with   strange   pangs  and  longings  in 
finite, 

As  if  earth's  fairest  flowers  served  but  to  wake 
Sad,  haunting  memories  of  our  Eden  home ; 
Not  all  in  vain.     Meantime,  in  patient  trust, 
Rest  we  on  Nature's  bosom  :  from  her  eye, 
Serene  and  still,  drinking  in  faith  and  love ; 
To  her  calm  pulse  attempering  the  heart 
That  throbs  too  wildly  for  ideal  bliss. 


62  A   HOLLO  IV  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Oh  gentle  Mother,  heal  me,  for  I  faint 
Upon  life's  arid  pathway  ;  or  apart, 
On  lonely  mountain  heights,  oft  hear  a  voice 
Tempting  my  agony  with  perilous  thoughts 
Of  death's  calm,  dreamless  slumber ;  and  my 

feet 
On  the  dark  mountains  stumble.     Near   thy 

heart, 

Close  nestling,  let  me  lie  ;  and  let  thy  breath, 
Fragrant  and  cool,  fall  on  my  fever'd  cheek, 
As  in  those  unworn  ages  ere  pale  thought 
Forestalled   life's   patient   harvest.      Give   me 

strength 

To  follow  wheresoe'er  o'er  the  world's  waste 
The  cloudy  pillar  moveth  ;  till  at  last 
It  guide  to  pleasant  vales  and  pastures  green 
By  the  still  waters  of  eternal  life. 


TO 


THINE  is  the  hope  that  knows  no  fear, 

The  patient  heart  and  true  ; 
Whose  wrongs  but  make  the  right  more  dear, 

Whose  love  no  loss  may  rue. 

Sometimes  a  soft  and  sad  surprise,  — 
A  pitying  angel,  passion  free,  — 

Looks  earthward,  from  thy  tender  eyes, 
Upon  our  frail  humanity. 

Thy  calm  brow  speaks  a  nature  true, 

A  marble  constancy  of  soul, 
A  heart  that  can  its  dreams  subdue 

To  wisdom's  passionless  control. 

Thine  eye  hath  the  serenity 

By  Raphael  to  the  Virgin  given, 

And  from  its  blue  benignity 

Looks  out  the  holy  light  of  heaven. 


MORNING  AFTER  A  STORM. 

THE  wan  and  melancholy  stars 
Are  fading  with  the  fading  gloom, 

And,  through  the  Orient's  cloudy  bars, 
I  see  the  rose  of  morning  bloom. 

All  flushed,  and  fairer  for  the  storm, 
It  opens  on  our  vernal  skies, 

Divinely  beautiful  and  warm, 
As  on  the  hills  of  Paradise. 

And  on  its  breast  a  shining  spark, 
Like  a  bright  drop  of  morning  dew, 

Lies  glittering  on  the  rosy  dark, 
Then  melts  and  mingles  with  the  blue. 

Sweet  morning-star  !  thy  silver  beams, 
Foretell  a  fairer  life  to  come  ; 

Arouse  the  sleeper  from  his  dreams 
And  call  the  wandering  spirit  home. 


MORNING  AFTER  A   STORM.  65 

My  soul,  ascending  like  a  lark, 
Would  follow  on  thine  airy  flight ; 

And  like  yon  little  diamond  spark, 
Dissolve  into  the  realms  of  light. 


TO  E.  O.  S. 

"  Eos,  fair  Goddess  of  the  Morn  !  whose  eyes 
Drive  back  Night's  wandering  ghosts." —  HORNB'S  Orion, 

WHEN  issuing  from  the   realms   of  "  Shadow 

Land  " 

I  see  thee  mid  the  Orient's  kindling  bloom, 
With  mystic  lilies  gleaming  in  thy  hand, 

Gathered  by  dream-light  in  the  dusky  gloom 
Of  bowers  enchanted  —  I  behold  again 

The  fabled  Goddess  of  the  Morning,  veiled 
In  fleecy  clouds.    Thy  cheek,  so  softly  paled 
With    memories    of    the   Night's    mysterious 

reign, 

And  something  of  the  star-light,  burning  still 
In  thy  deep,  dreamy  eyes,  do  but  fulfill 
The  vision  more  divinely  to  my  thought : 
While    all    the   cheerful    hopes   enkindling 

round  thee  — 
Warm  hopes,  wherewith  thy  prescient  soul 

hath  crowned  thee  — 

Are  with   the   breath   of    morning  fragrance 
fraught. 


SHE   BLOOMS   NO   MORE. 

"  Oh  primavera,  gioventu  dell'  anno, 
Bella  madre  di  fiori, 
Tu  torni  ben,  ma  teco 
Non  tornani  i  sereni 
E  fortunati  di  delle  mi  gioge."  —  GUARINI. 

I  DREAD  to  see  the  summer  sun 

Come  glowing  up  the  sky, 
And  early  pansies,  one  by  one, 

Opening  the  violet  eye. 

Again  the  fair  azalea  bows 

Beneath  her  snowy  crest ; 
In  yonder  hedge  the  hawthorn  blows, 

The  robin  builds  her  nest ; 

The  tulips  lift  their  proud  tiars, 
The  lilac  waves  her  plumes  ; 

And,  peeping  through  my  lattice-bars, 
The  rose-acacia  blooms. 

But  she  can  bloom  on  earth  no  more, 
Whose  early  doom  I  mourn  ; 


68  SHE  BLOOMS  NO  MORE. 

Nor  spring  nor  summer  can  restore 
Our  flower,  untimely  shorn. 

She  was  our  morning-glory, 
Our  primrose,  pure  and  pale, 

Our  little  mountain  daisy, 
Our  lily  of  the  vale. 

Now  dim  as  folded  violets, 

Her  eyes  of  dewy  light  ; 
And  her  rosy  lips  have  mournfully 

Breathed  out  their  last  good-night. 

'T  is  therefore  that  I  dread  to  see 
The  glowing  summer  sun  ; 

And  the  balmy  blossoms  on  the  tree, 
Unfolding  one  by  one. 


THE   PAST. 

"  So  fern,  und  doch  so  nah."  —  GOETHE. 

THICK  darkness  broodeth  o'er  the  world  : 

The  raven  pinions  of  the  Night, 
Close  on  her  silent  bosom  furled, 

Reflect  no  gleam  of  Orient  light. 
E'en  the  wild  Norland  fires  that  mocked 

The  faint  bloom  of  the  eastern  sky, 
Now  leave  me,  in  close  darkness  locked, 

To-night's  weird  realm  of  fantasy. 

Borne  from  pale  shadow-lands  remote, 

A  morphean  music,  wildly  sweet, 
Seems,  on  the  starless  gloom,  to  float, 

Like  the  white-pinioned  Paraclete. 
Softly  into  my  dream  it  flows, 

Then  faints  into  the  silence  drear ; 
While  from  the  hollow  dark  outgrows 

The  phantom  Past,  pale  gliding  near. 

The  visioned  Past ;  so  strangely  fair  ! 
So  veiled  in  shadowy,  soft  regrets. 


JQ  THE  PAST. 

So  steeped  in  sadness,  like  the  air 
That  lingers  \vhen  the  day-star  sets  ! 

Ah  !  could  I  fold  it  to  my  heart, 
On  its  cold  lip  my  kisses  press, 

This  waste  of  aching  life  impart, 
To  win  it  back  from  nothingness  ! 

I  loathe  the  purple  light  of  day, 

And  shun  the  morning's  golden  star, 
Beside  that  shadowy  form  to  stray, 

Forever  near,  yet  oh  how  far  ! 
Thin  as  a  cloud  of  summer  even, 

All  beauty  from  my  gaze  it  bars  ; 
Shuts  out  the  silver  cope  of  heaven, 

And  glooms  athwart  the  dying  stars. 

Cold,  sad,  and  spectral,  by  my  side, 

It  breathes  of  love's  ethereal  bloom,  — 
Of  bridal  memories,  long  affied 

To  the  dread  silence  of  the  tomb  : 
Sweet,  cloistered  memories,  that  the  heart 

Shuts  close  within  its  chalice  cold  ; 
Faint  perfumes,  that  no  more  dispart 

From  the  bruised  lily's  floral  fold. 

"  My  soul  is  weary  of  her  life  ;  " 

My  heart  sinks  with  a  slow  despair ; 


THE  PAST. 

The  solemn,  star-lit  hours  are  rife 
With  fantasy  ;  the  noontide  glare, 

And  the  cool  morning,  fancy  free, 
Are  false  with  shadows  ;  for  the  day 

Brings  no  blithe  sense  of  verity, 

Nor  wins  from  twilight  thoughts  away. 

Oh,  bathe  me  in  the  Lethean  stream, 

And  feed  me  on  the  lotus  flowers  ; 
Shut  out  this  false,  bewildering  dream, 

This  memory  of  departed  hours  ! 
Sweet  haunting  dream!  so  strangely  fair 

So  veiled  in  shadowy,  soft  regrets  — 
So  steeped  in  sadness,  like  the  air 

That  lingers  when  the  day-star  sets  ! 

The  Future  can  no  charm  confer, 

My  heart's  deep  solitudes  to  break ; 
No  angel's  foot  again  shall  stir 

The  waters  of  that  silent  lake. 
I  wander  in  pale  dreams  away, 

And  shun  the  morning's  golden  star, 
To  follow  still  that  failing  ray, 

Forever  near,  yet  oh  how  far ! 

Feb.,  1846. 


"THE  RAVEN." 

RAVEN,  from  the  dim  dominions 
On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore, 

Oft  I  hear  thy  dusky  pinions 

Wave  and  flutter  round  my  door  — 

See  the  shadow  of  thy  pinions 
Float  along  the  moon-lit  floor  ; 

Often,  from  the  oak-woods  glooming 
Round  some  dim  ancestral  tower, 

In  the  lurid  distance  looming  — 
Some  high  solitary  tower  — 

I  can  hear  thy  storm-cry  booming 
Through  the  lonely  midnight  hour. 

When  the  moon  is  at  the  zenith, 
Thou  dost  haunt  the  moated  hall, 

Where  the  marish  flower  greeneth 
O'er  the  waters,  like  a  pall  - 

Where  the  House  of  Usher  leaneth, 
Darkly  nodding  to  its  fall  : 


THE  RAVEN.  73 

There  I  see  thee,  dimly  gliding, — 
See  thy  black  plumes  waving  slow,  — 

In  its  hollow  casements  hiding, 
When  their  shadow  yawns  below, 

To  the  sullen  tarn  confiding 

The  dark  secrets  of  their  woe  :  — 

See  thee,  when  the  stars  are  burning 
In  their  cressets,  silver  clear,  — 

When  Ligeia's  spirit  yearning 

For  the  earth-life,  wanders  near,  — 

When  Morella's  soul  returning, 
Weirdly  whispers  "  I  am  here." 

Once,  within  a  realm  enchanted, 

On  a  far  isle  of  the  seas, 
By  unearthly  visions  haunted, 

By  unearthly  melodies, 
Where  the  evening  sunlight  slanted 

Golden  through  the  garden  trees,  — 

Where  the  dreamy  moonlight  dozes, 
Where  the  early  violets  dwell, 

Listening  to  the  silver  closes 
Of  a  lyric  loved  too  well, 

Suddenly,  among  the  roses, 
Like  a  cloud,  thy  shadow  fell. 


74  THE  RAVEN. 

Once,  where  Ulalume  lies  sleeping, 
Hard  by  Auber's  haunted  mere, 

With  the  ghouls  a  vigil  keeping, 
On  that  night  of  all  the  year, 

Came  thy  sounding  pinions,  sweeping 
Through  the  leafless  woods  of  Weir  ! 

Oft,  with  Proserpine  I  wander 
On  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore, 

Hoping,  fearing,  while  I  ponder 
On  thy  loved  and  lost  Lenore 

On  the  demon  doubts  that  sunder 
Soul  from  soul  for  evermore  ; 

Trusting,  though  with  sorrow  laden, 
That  when  life's  dark  dream  is  o'er, 

By  whatever  name  the  maiden 
Lives  within  thy  mystic  lore, 

Eiros,  in  that  distant  Aidenn, 

Shall  his  Charmion  meet  once  more. 


REMEMBERED  MUSIC. 

OH,  lonely  heart !  why  do  thy  pulses  beat 
To  the  hushed  music  of  a  voice  so  dear, 
That  all  sweet,  mournful  cadences  repeat 

Its  low,  bewildering  accents  to  thine  ear. 
Why  dost  thou  question  the  pale  stars  to  know 

If  that  rich  music  floats  upon  the  air, 
In   those   far   realms   where,  else,  their   fires 

would  glow 

Forever  beautiful  to  thy  despair  ? 
Trust  thou  in  God  ;  for,  far  within  the  veil, 
Where  glad  hosannas  through  the  empyrean 

roll, 
And  choral  anthems  of  the  angel's  hail 

With   hallelujah's    sweet   the    enfranchised 

soul,  — 
The  voice  that  sang   earth's    sorrow  through 

earth's  night, 

Shall  with  glad  seraphs  sing,  in  God's  great 
light. 


OUR   ISLAND   OF   DREAMS. 

"  By  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn."  —  KEATS. 

TELL  him  I  lingered  alone  on  the  shore, 
Where  we   parted,   in  sorrow,  to  meet  never 

more  ; 

The  night  wind  blew  cold  on  my  desolate  heart, 
But   colder  those  wild  words  of   doom,  "Ye 

must  part  ? " 

O'er  the  dark,  heaving  waters,  I  sent  forth  a 

cry; 
Save  the  wail  of  those  waters  there  came  no 

reply. 

I  longed,  like  a  bird,  o'er  the  billows  to  flee, 
From  our  lone  island  home  and  the  moan  of 

the  sea  : 

Away  —  far  away  —  from  the  wild  ocean  shore, 
Where   the  waves  ever   murmur,  "  No  more, 
never  more  ;  " 


OUR  ISLAND   OF  DREAMS.  77 

Where  I  wake,  in  the  wild  noon  of  midnight, 

to  hear 
That  lone  song  of  the  surges,  so  mournful  and 

drear. 

When  the  clouds  that  now  veil  from  us  heaven's 

fair  light, 

Their  soft,  silver  lining  turn  forth  on  the  night ; 
When  time  shall  the  vapors  of  falsehood  dispel, 
He  shall  know  if  I  loved  him  ;  but  never  how 

well. 
1849- 


THE   LAST  FLOWERS. 

u  The  undying  voice  of  that  dead  time, 
With  its  interminable  chime, 
Rings  on  my  spirit  like  a  knell." 

DOST  thou  remember  that  Autumnal  day 
When   by  the   Seekonk's  lonely   wave   we 
stood, 

And  marked  the  languor  of  repose  that  lay, 
Softer  than  sleep,  on  valley,  wave,  and  wood  ? 

A  trance  of  holy  sadness  seemed  to  lull 
The  charmed  earth  and  circumambient  air, 

And  the  low  murmur  of  the  leaves  seemed  full 
Of  a  resigned  and  passionless  despair. 

Though  the  warm  breath  of  summer  lingered 

still 
In  the  lone  paths  where  late  her  footsteps 

passed, 

The  pallid  star-flowers  on  the  purple  hill 
Sighed  dreamily,  "We  are  the  last !  the  last ! " 


THE  LAST  FLOWERS.  79 

I  stood  beside  thee,  and  a  dream  of  heaven 
Around  me  like  a  golden  halo  fell ! 

Then  the  bright  veil  of  fantasy  was  riven, 
And  my  lips  murmured,  "  Fare  thee  well !  — 
farewell ! " 

I  dared  not  listen  to  thy  words,  nor  turn 
To  meet  the  mystic  language  of  thine  eyes, 

I  only//?//  their  power,  and  in  the  urn 

Of  memory,  treasured  their  sweet  rhapso 
dies. 

We  parted  then,  forever,  —  and  the  hours 
Of   that   bright   day  were   gathered  to  the 

past,  - 
But,  through  long  wintry  nights,  I  heard  the 

flowers 

Sigh   dreamily,    "  We  are  the  last  !  —  the 
last!" 

September,  1849. 


SONG. 

I  BADE  thee  stay.     Too  well  I  know 
The  fault  was  mine,  —  mine  only  : 

I  dared  not  think  upon  the  past, 
All  desolate  and  lonely. 

I  feared  in  memory's  silent  air 

Too  sadly  to  regret  thee,  - 
Feared  in  the  night  of  my  despair 

I  could  not  all  forget  thee. 

Yet  go,  —  ah,  go  !  those  pleading  eyes, 
Those  low,  sweet  tones,  appealing 

From  heart  to  heart,  —  ah,  dare  I  trust 
That  passionate  revealing  ? 

For  ah,  those  dark  and  pleading  eyes 
Evoke  too  keen  a  sorrow,  - 

A  pang  that  will  not  pass  away, 
With  thy  wild  vows,  to-morrow. 


SONG.  8 1 

A  love  immortal  and  divine 

Within  my  heart  is  waking : 
Its  dream  of  anguish  and  despair 

It  owns  not  but  in  breaking. 


WITHERED  FLOWERS. 

REMEMBRANCERS  of  happiness  !  to  me 

Ye  bring  sweet  thoughts  of  the  year's  pur 
ple  prime, 

Wild,  mingling  melodies  of  bird  and  bee, 
That   pour  on  summer  winds  their  silvery 

chime 
Of  balmy  incense,  burdening  all  the  air, 

From  flowers  that  by  the  sunny  garden  wall 
Bloomed    at    your   side,    nursed    into   beauty 

there 

By  dews  and  silent  showers :  but  these  to  all 
Ye  bring.     Oh  !    sweeter  far  than   these   the 

spell 

Shrined  in  those  fairy  urns  for  me  alone  ; 
For  me  a  charm  sleeps  in  each  honeyed  cell, 
Whose  power  can  call  back  hours  of  rapture 

flown, 

To  the  sad  heart  sweet  memories  restore, 
Tones,  looks,  and  words  of  love  that  may  re 
turn  no  more. 


THE  PHANTOM  VOICE. 

"  It  is  a  phantom  voice  '. 
Again !  —  again !  how  solemnly  it  falls 
Into  my  heart  of  hearts !  " 

SCENES  FROM  Politian. 

THROUGH  the  solemn  hush  of  midnight, 

How  sadly  on  my  ear 
Falls  the  echo  of  a  harp  whose  tones 

I  never  more  may  hear  ! 

A  wild,  unearthly  melody, 
Whose  monotone  doth  move 

The  saddest,  sweetest  cadences 
Of  sorrow  and  of  love  : 

Till  the  burden  of  remembrance  weighs 

Like  lead  upon  my  heart, 
And  the  shadow,  on  my  soul  that  sleeps, 

Will  never  more  depart. 

The  ghastly  moonlight,  gliding 

Like  a  phantom  through  the  gloom, 


84  THE  PHANTOM  VOICE. 

How  it  fills  with  solemn  fantasies 
My  solitary  room ! 

And  the  sighing  winds  of  Autumn, 
Ah  !  how  sadly  they  repeat 

That  low,  bewildering  melody, 
So  mystically  sweet ! 

I  hear  it  softly  murmuring 
At  midnight  o'er  the  hill, 

Or  across  the  wide  savannas, 
When  all  beside  is  still. 

I  hear  it  in  the  moaning 
Of  the  melancholy  main  ; 

In  the  rushing  of  the  night-wind, 
The  rhythm  of  the  rain. 

E'en  the  wild-flowers  of  the  forest, 
Waving  sadly  to  and  fro, 

But  whisper  to  my  boding  heart 
The  burden  of  its  woe. 

And  the  spectral  moon,  now  paling 

And  fading,  seems  to  say, 
"  I  leave  thee  to  remembrances 
That  will  not  pass  away." 


THE  PHANTOM  VOICE.  85 

Ah,  through  all  the  solemn  midnight, 

How  mournful  't  is  to  hark 
To  the  voices  of  the  silence, 

The  whisper  of  the  dark  ! 

In  vain  I  turn,  some  solace 

From  the  distant  stars  to  crave  : 

They  are  shining  on  thy  sepulchre, 
Are  smiling  on  thy  grave. 

How  I  weary  of  their  splendor ! 

All  night  long  they  seem  to  say, 
"  We  are  lonely,  —  sad  and  lonely,  — 
Far  away,  —  far,  far  away  !  " 

Thus,  through  all  the  solemn  midnight, 

That  phantom  voice  I  hear, 
As  it  echoes  through  the  silence, 

When  no  earthly  sound  is  near. 

And  though  dawn-light   yields   to   noon- 
light, 

And  though  darkness  turns  to  day, 
They  but  leave  me  to  remembrances 

That  will  not  pass  away. 

November •,  1849. 


ARCTURUS. 

WRITTEN    IN    OCTOBER. 
"  Our  star  looks  through  the  storm." 

STAR  of  resplendent  front !  thy  glorious  eye 
Shines  on  me  still  from  out  yon  clouded  sky,  — 
Shines  on  me  through  the  horrors  of  a  night 
More  drear  than  ever  fell  o'er  day  so  bright,  — 
Shines  till  the  envious  Serpent  slinks  away, 
And  pales  and  trembles  at  thy  steadfast  ray. 

Hast  thou  not  stooped  from  heaven,  fair  star ! 

to  be 

So  near  me  in  this  hour  of  agony  ?  — 
So  near,  —  so  bright,  —  so  glorious,  that  I  seem 
To  lie  entranced  as  in  some  wondrous  dream,  — 
All  earthly  joys  forgot,  —  all  earthly  fear, 
Purged  in  the  light  of  thy  resplendent  sphere : 
Kindling  within  my  soul  a  pure  desire 
To  blend  with  thine  its  incandescent  fire,  — 
To  lose  my  very  life  in  thine,  and  be 
Soul  of  thy  soul  through  all  eternity. 
1849. 


RESURGEMUS. 

I  MOURN  thee  not :  no  words  can  tell 

The  solemn  calm  that  tranced  my  breast 

When  first  I  "knew  thy  soul  had  past 
From  earth  to  its  eternal  rest ; 

For  doubt  and  darkness,  o'er  thy  head, 
Forever  waved  their  Condor  wings  ; 

And  in  their  murky  shadows  bred 
Forms  of  unutterable  things  ; 

And  all  around  thy  silent  hearth, 

The  glory  that  once  blushed  and  bloomed 
Was  but  a  dim-remembered  dream 

Of  "the  old  time  entombed." 

Those  melancholy  eyes  that  seemed 
To  look  beyond  all  time,  or,  turned 

On  eyes  they  loved,  so  softly  beamed,  — 
How  few  their  mystic  language  learned. 


88  RESURGEMUS. 

How  few  could  read  their  depths,  or  know 
The  proud,  high  heart  that  dwelt  alone 

In  gorgeous  palaces  of  woe, 

Like  Eblis  on  his  burning  throne. 

For  ah  !  no  human  heart  could  brook 
The  darkness  of  thy  doom  to  share, 

And  not  a  living  eye  could  look 
Unscathed  upon  thy  dread  despair. 

I  mourn  thee  not :  life  had  no  lore 
Thy  soul  in  morphean  dews  to  steep, 

Love's  lost  nepenthe  to  restore, 
Or  bid  the  avenging  sorrow  sleep. 

Yet,  while  the  night  of  life  shall  last, 
While  the  slow  stars  above  me  roll, 

In  the  heart's  solitudes  I  keep 
A  solemn  vigil  for  thy  soul. 

I  tread  dim  cloistral  aisles,  where  all 
Beneath  are  solemn-sounding  graves  ; 

While  o'er  the  oriel,  like  a  pall, 
A  dark,  funereal  shadow  waves. 

There,  kneeling  by  a  lampless  shrine, 
Alone  amid  a  place  of  tombs, 


RESURGEMUS.  89 

My  erring  spirit  pleads  for  thine 
Till  light  along  the  Orient  blooms. 

Oh,  when  thy  faults  are  all  forgiven, 

The  vigil  of  my  life  outwrought, 
In  some  calm  altitude  of  heaven,  — 

The  dream  of  thy  prophetic  thought,  — 

Forever  near  thee,  soul  in  soul, 

Near  thee  forever,  yet  how  far, 
May  our  lives  reach  love's  perfect  goal 

In  the  high  order  of  thy  star ! 


SONNETS. 


TO  . 

VAINLY  my  heart  had  with  thy  sorceries  striven : 
It  had  no  refuge  from  thy  love,  —  no  Heaven 
But  in  thy  fatal  presence  ;  —  from  afar 
It  owned  thy  power  and  trembled  like  a  star 
O'erfraught  with  light  and  splendor.     Could  I 

deem 

How  dark  a  shadow  should  obscure  its  beam  ? — 
Could  I  believe  that  pain  could  ever  dwell 
Where   thy   bright  presence  cast   its   blissful 

spell  ? 

Thou  wert  my  proud  palladium  ;  —  could  I  fear 
The    avenging    Destinies    when    thou    wert 

near  ?  — 

Thou  wert  my  Destiny  ;  —  thy  song,  thy  fame, 
The  wild  enchantments  clustering  round  thy 

name, 

Were  my  soul's  heritage,  its  royal  dower  ; 
Its  glory  and  its  kingdom  and  its  power ! 


SONNETS. 


II. 

WHEN  first  I  looked  into  thy  glorious  eyes, 

And  saw,  with  their  unearthly  beauty  pained, 
Heaven    deepening   within   heaven,   like   the 

skies 

Of  autumn  nights  without  a  shadow  stained, 
I  stood  as  one  whom  some  strange  dream  en 
thralls  ; 

For,  far  away,  in  some  lost  life  divine, 
Some  land  which  every  glorious  dream  recalls, 

A  spirit  looked  on  me  with  eyes  like  thine. 
E'en  now,  though  death  has  veiled  their  starry 

light, 

And  closed  their  lids  in  his  relentless  night  — 
As    some   strange   dream,    remembered   in  a 

dream, 

Again  I  see,  in  sleep,  their  tender  beam ; 
Unfading  hopes  their  cloudless  azure  fill, 
Heaven  deepening  within  heaven,  serene  and 
still. 


92  SONNETS. 


III. 

OFT  since  thine  earthly  eyes  have  closed  on 

mine, 
Our   souls,    dim-wandering   in    the   hall    of 

dreams, 
Hold  mystic  converse  on  the  life  divine, 

By  the  still  music  of  immortal  streams  ; 
And  oft  thy  spirit  tells  how  souls,  affied 

By  sovran  destinies,  no  more  can  part, 

How  death  and  hell  are  powerless  to  divide 
Souls  whose  deep  lives  lie  folded  heart  in 

heart. 
And  if,  at  times,  some  lingering  shadow  lies 

Heavy  upon  my  path,  some  haunting  dread, 
Then  do  I  point  thee  to  the  harmonies 

Of   those  calm   heights  whereto  our  souls 

arise 

Through  suffering,  —  the  faith  that  doth  ap 
prove 

In  death  the  deathless  power  and  divine  life 
of  love. 


SONNETS. 


93 


IV. 

WE  met  beneath  September's  gorgeous  beams  : 
Long   in   my   house   of   life   thy   star   had 

reigned ; 
Its  mournful  splendor  trembled  through  my 

dreams, 
Nor   with   the   night's   phantasmal    glories 

waned. 
We  wandered  thoughtfully  o'er  golden  meads 

To  a  lone  woodland,  lit  by  starry  flowers, 
Where  a  wild,  solitary  pathway  leads 

Through  mouldering  sepulchres  and  cypress 

bowers. 

A  dreamy  sadness  filled  the  autumnal  air ;  — 
By  a  low,  nameless  grave  I   stood   beside 

thee, 

My  heart  according  to  thy  murmured  prayer 
The  full,  sweet  answers  that  my  lips  denied 

thee. 

O  mournful  faith,  on  that  dread  altar  sealed  — • 
Sad  dawn  of  love  in  realms  of  death  revealed  ! 


94  SONNETS. 


V. 


ON   our   lone    pathway   bloomed    no    earthly 

hopes  :  — 

Sorrow  and  death  were  near  us,  as  we  stood 

Where  the  dim  forest,  from  the  upland  slopes, 

Swept  darkly  to  the  sea.     The  enchanted 

wood 

Thrilled,  as  by  some  foreboding  terror  stirred  ; 
And  as  the  waves  broke  on  the  lonely  shore, 
In  their  low  monotone,  methought  I  heard 
A  solemn  voice  that  sighed,    "  Ye  meet  no 

more." 
There,  while  the  level   sunbeams  seemed  to 

burn 
Through   the  long  aisles  of  red,  autumnal 

gloom,  — 
Where  stately,  storied  cenotaphs  inurn 

Sweet   human  hopes,  too  fair  on  Earth  to 

bloom,  — 
Was  the  bud  reaped,  whose  petals,  pure  and 

cold, 

Sleep  on  my  heart  till  Heaven  the  flower  un 
fold. 


95 


VI. 


IF  thy  sad  heart,  pining  for  human  love, 

.  In  its  earth  solitude  grew  dark  with  fear, 
Lest  the  high  Sun  of   Heaven  itself  should 

prove 
Powerless   to   save  from    that   phantasmal 

sphere 

Wherein  thy  spirit  wandered  —  if  the  flowers 
That  pressed  around  thy  feet,  seemed  but 

to  bloom 

In  lone  Gethsemanes,  through  starless  hours, 
When  all,  who  loved,  had  left  thee  to  thy 

doom  :  — 
Oh,  yet  believe,  that,  in  that  hollow  vale, 

Where  thy  soul  lingers,  waiting  to  attain 
So  much  of  Heaven's  sweet  grace  as  shall  avail 

To  lift  its  burden  of  remorseful  pain,  — 
My  soul  shall  meet  thee  and  its  Heaven  forego 
Till  God's  great  love,  on  both,  one  hope,  one 
Heaven  bestow. 


ARCTURUS. 

WRITTEN    IN    APRIL. 

"  Nee  morti  esse  locum,  sed  viva  volare 
Sideris  in  numerum  atque  alto  succedere  ccelo." 

VIRGIL,  Geor.,  IV. 

AGAIN,  imperial  star  !  thy  mystic  beams 
Pour   their   wild    splendors    on   my   waking 

dreams, 

Piercing  the  blue  depths  of  the  vernal  night 
With  opal  shafts  and  flames  of  ruby  light  ; 
Filling  the  air  with  melodies,  that  come 
Mournful  and  sweet,  from  the  dark,  sapphire 

dome,  — 

Weird  sounds,  that  make  the  cheek  with  won 
der  pale, 
As    their   wild    symphonies    o'ersweep    the 

gale. 

For,  in  that  gorgeous  world,  I  fondly  deem, 
Dwells   the  freed   soul  of   one  whose  earthly 
dream 


ARCTURUS.  97 

Was  full  of  beauty,  majesty  and  wo  ; 

One  who,  in  that   pure  realm  of   thine,  doth 

grow 

Into  a  power  serene,  —  a  solemn  joy, 
Undimmed  by  earthly  sorrow  or  alloy ; 
Sphered    far    above    the    dread,    phantasmal 

gloom,  — 

The  penal  tortures  of  that  living  tomb 
Wherein  his  earth-life  languished  ;  — who  shall 

tell 
The  drear  enchantments  of  that  Dantean  hell ! 

"  Was  it  not  Fate,  whose  earthly  name  is  Sor 
row," 

That  bade  him,  with  prophetic  soul,  to  borrow 
From  all  the  stars  that  fleck   night's   purple 

dome, 

Thee,  bright  Arcturus  !  for  his  Eden  home  :  — 
Was   it   not    Fate,    whose   name    in    Heaven 

above, 
Is     Truth    and     Goodness    and    unchanging 

Love,  — 

Was  it  not  Fate,  that  bade  him  turn  to  thee 
As  the  bright  regent  of  his  destiny  ?  — 
For  when  thine  orb  passed  from  the  lengthen 
ing  gloom 

Of  autumn  nights,  a  morning-star  to  bloom 
7 


9§  ARCTURUS. 

Beside  Aurora's  eastern  gates  of  pearl, 

He  passed  from  earth,  his  weary  wings  to  furl 

In  the  cool  vales  of  Heaven :  thence,  through 

yon  sea 
Of  starry  isles,  to  hold  his  course  to  thee. 

Now,  when  in  April's  cloudless  nights,  I  turn 
To  where  thy  pharos  mid  the  stars  doth  burn,  — 
A  glorious  cynosure,  —  I  read  in  thee 
The  rune  of  Virgil's  golden  augury  ; 1 
And  deem  that  o  'er  thy  seas  of  silver  calm 
Floats  the  far  perfume  of  the  Eden  palm. 

1  For  there  is  no  place  of  annihilation  :  but  alive  they 
mount  up  each  into  his  own  order  of  star,  and  take  their  high 
seat  in  the  heavens.  —  Georgics,  Book  IV. 

April,  1850. 


TO  THE  MORNING-STAR. 

"Fair  crescent  star,  upborne  on  waves  of  light, — 
Bud  of  the  morning,  that  must  fade  so  soon." 

DALGONI. 

SWEET  Phosphor !  star  of  Love  and  Hope, 

Again  I  see  thy  silver  horn 
Rise  o'er  the  dark  and  dewy  slope 

Of  yonder  hills  that  hide  the  morn. 

All  night  the  glooming  shadows  lay 
So  thick  on  valley,  wave,  and  wold, 

I  scarce  could  deem  the  buried  day 

Would  ever  pierce  their  shrouding  fold  : 

Yet,  even  now,  a  line  of  light 

Comes  slowly  surging  o'er  the  dark  ; 

And  lo  !  thy  crescent,  floating  bright 
And  buoyant  as  a  fairy  bark. 

But  ah,  the  solemn  stars  of  night,  — 
The  distant  stars  that  long  have  set,  — 


IOO  TO    THE  MORNING-STAR. 

How  can  I,  in  thy  nearer  light 

Of  love  and  hope,  their  smile  forget  ?  — 

The  stars  that  trembled  through  my  dream, 
That  spoke  in  accents  faint  and  far, 

Can  I  forget  their  pensive  beam, 

For  thine,  my  radiant  morning-star  ? 

No  dawn-light  in  my  soul  can  wake 
One  hope  to  make  the  world  more  fair ; 

No  noon-tide  ray  illume  the  lake 

Of  dark  remembrance,  brooding  there  ; 

But  Night  comes  down  the  paling  west, 
With  mystic  glories  on  her  brow  :  — 

She  lays  her  cold  hand  on  my  breast, 
And  bids,  for  me,  the  lotus  blow  : 

She  bears  me  on  her  Lethean  tides 
To  lands  by  living  waters  fed  : 

She  lifts  the  cloudy  veil  that  hides 
The  dim  campagnas  of  the  dead. 

Down  the  long  corridor  of  dreams, 

She  leads  me  silently  away  ; 
Till,  through  its  shadowy  portal,  streams 

The  dawn  of  that  diviner  Day ! 
1850. 


HOURS   OF   LIFE. 


HOURS   OF   LIFE. 


MORNING. 

"  Temp'  era  dal  principio  del  matino 
E'l  sol  montava  in  su  con  quelle  stelle 
Ch'eran  con  lui  quando  1'Amor  divino 
Mosse  da  prima  quelle  cose  belle  ; 
Si  cha  bene  sperir  mera  cagione 
L'ora  del  tempo  e  la  dolce  stagione." 

DANTE. 

ERE  youth  with  its  auroral  blooms 

Dispels  the  tender  twilight  glooms 

Of  Infancy,  while  yet  it  lies 

Close  to  the  gates  of  Paradise, 

No  fears  the  guileless  bosom  thrill ; 

The  little  stranger  slumbers  still, 

O'ershadowed  by  the  silent  wings 

Of  angels,  till  the  morning  brings 

Music  and  perfume,  and  around  him  flings 

Her  rosy  mist-wreaths,  drooping  warm  and  low, 

And  prints  her  fragrant  kisses  on  his  brow. 


IO4  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

Startled  from  out  that  dreamless  rest. 
Through  mist-wreaths,  drooping  warm  and 
low, 

I  saw  her  faint  smile  in  the  east, 
I  felt  her  kisses  on  my  brow. 

From  the  high  meadows,  dewy-sweet, 
Fair  Eos  with  her  silver  feet 
Chased  the  shadows  as  they  crept 

Under  woodland  boughs  away, 
Or  down  the  airy  uplands  swept 

Into  hollows  cool  and  gray, 
Till  her  full  refulgence,  bright 
As  a  perfect  chrysolite, 
Filled  the  solemn  dome  of  Night ! 

With  a  sweet,  indolent  surprise, 
Undimmed  by  haunting  memories, 
I  saw  the  gradual  glory  rise. 

Divinely  calm  and  fancy-free 
Were  those  morning  hours  to  me  ; 
I  recked  not  of  the  bitter  root 
That  bears  the  paradisal  fruit ; 
I  knew  not  that  the  serpent  brood 
Lurked  in  that  Aidenn  solitude  ; 


MORNING.  105 

For  childhood  kept  inviolate 
The  tenure  of  its  fair  estate, 
Lulled  in  a  murmurous  monotone, 
As  when  bees  in  violets  drone. 

Till  gently  as  the  spring-time  showers 
Wake  the  rose-buds  into  flowers, 
Nature  wrought  her  spells  to  lure 
The  child-heart  from  its  clear-obscure, 
Dazzling  the  bewildered  sense 
With  daedalian  opulence, 
Protean  visions,  sweet  and  strange, 
And  swift  and  subtle  interchange 
Of  light  with  shadow,  too  intense 
For  the  sweet  calm  of  innocence  : 
Soon  like  the  pure  and  priceless  pearl 

In  Egypt's  festal  goblet  tossed, 
It  vanished  in  the  dizzy  whirl 

Of  life's  bewildering  pleasures  lost. 

Wild  hopes  came  fluttering  round  my  heart 
And  swept  its  folded  leaves  apart, 
As  underneath  those  cloudless  skies 
I  wandered  with  my  Destinies, 
Nor  sought  to  read  their  silent  eyes. 

Thoughts  for  pain  too  dear  —  too  deep 
For  pleasure  —  caused  the  heart  to  weep 


IO6  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

Tears  that,  steeped  in  fragrance,  fell 
Like  dew-drops  from  the  lily's  bell. 

Dream  followed  dream  :  and  still  the  day 
Floated  on  golden  wings  away. 

Then,  while  each  little  woodland  bird 

One  sweet  note  forever  sung, 
My  heart  on  one  bewildering  word 

Its  wealth  of  morning  music  flung  : 
All  the  glory  and  the  gloom  — 

All  the  passion  and  the  power  — 
All  the  mystic  bale  and  bloom 

Of  its  high  imperial  dower. 

Like  the  sole  phoenix  in  his  perfumed  nest, 
Love  reigned  within  my  heart  a  sovran  guest,  — 
Reigned  in  my  heart  of  hearts  —  the  throned 

lord 

Of  its  young  life,  unquestioned  and  adored ; 
Folding  its  fragrant  altar-gifts  in  flame 

That  made   the  summer  heavens  look  wan 

and  pale, 

Forestalling  life's  fair  heritage  and  claim 
On  earthly  hope  till  hope  waxed  cold  and 

stale, 

Bankrupt  and  blighted  with  the  fond  excess 
Of  a  too  rare  and  costly  happiness, 


MORNING.  lO/ 

A  flame  that   earth's    calm   joys   too   proudly 

spurned, 
And  left  but  ashes  where  its  altars  burned. 

Yet,  like  the  fabled  Greek,  superbly  bold, 

Who  on  Jove's  awful  countenance  would  gaze, 
Pining  immortal  beauty  to  behold, 

Consumed  beneath  the  lightning  of  its  rays, 
My  conscious  heart  a  willing  fate  had  sought, 
Undaunted  by  the  pangs  its  triumphs  bought ; 
Content  love's  mortal  penalties  to  share, 
And,  for  a  dream  so  sweet,  a  dreadless  doom 
to  dare. 

I  trod  o'er  meads  of  asphodel, 

I  walked  the  hall  of  dreams, 
And  gathered  sweeter  flowers  than  fell 

By  Enna's  fabled  streams. 

Every  wind  of  morning  bore 
Music  from  some  haunted  shore, 
Some  fairy  island  o'er  the  seas, 
Insphered  in  Orient  fantasies. 

Every  cloud  that  floated  by 

Veiled  beneath  its  silver  wing 
Missives  from  a  world  more  fair 

Than  the  Poet's  dream  of  spring. 


108  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

I  sought  the  holy  wells  of  song 
Love's  wild  enchantments  to  prolong, 
And  walked  as  in  a  waking  trance 
The  wonder-land  of  old  romance. 

Sometimes  to  a  triumph  march 

Throbbed  the  life-pulse,  warm  and  high  ; 

Sometimes  tolled  in  silver  time 

To  a  haunting  melody, 

Like  a  holy  matin  bell 

Chiming  in  a  far  chapelle  : 

Now  trembling  to  a  cadence  sweet 

As  the  clear  and  silver  beat 

Of  fairy  footsteps,  or  the  fall 

Of  fountains  in  a  marble  hall ; 

Now  as  to  an  echoing  horn, 

Far  through  moonlit  forests  borne, 

Sad  and  rhythmically  slow, 

Moved  to  grand  adagio. 

Dream  followed  dream  :  the  horizon  lay 

A  line  of  silver  far  away ; 

The  trees  soared  far  into  the  blue, 

The  rose-cups  dripped  with  morning  dew, 

And  still  the  level  life-path  wound 

Away,  away,  o'er  flowery  ground. 


NOON. 

"  The  mysterious  silence  of  full  noon." 

BAII.EY.    Festus. 

"  Combien  de  fois  dans  le  silence  de  minuit,  et  dans  cet  autre  silence  de 
midi,  si  accablant,  si  inquiet,  si  devorant,  n'ai-je  pas  senti  mon  coeur  se  pre"- 
cipiter  vers  un  but  inconnu,  vers  un  onhbeur  sans  forme  et  sans  nom,  qui 
est  au  ciel,  qui  est  dans  1'air,  qui  est  partout,  comme  1'amour!  C'est  1'aspi- 
ration  sainte  de  la  partie  la  plus  e'the'ree  de  notre  ame  vers  Tinconnu." 

GEORGE  SAND 

DREAM  followed  dream ;  and  still  the  day 
Floated  on  golden  wings  away ; 

But  in  the  hush  of  the  high  noon, 
Touched  by  a  sorrow  without  name, 
Consumed  by  a  slow  fever-flame, 

I  loathed  my  life's  mysterious  boon, 
Unconscious  of  its  end  or  aim ; 

Lost  in  a  languor  of  repose,  — 

A  luxury  of  gloom,  — 
As  when  the  curved,  voluptuous  rose 

Droops  with  its  wealth  of  bloom. 

Decked  as  for  a  festival 
Seemed  the  wide  and  lonely  hall 


110  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

Of  Nature,  but  a  mute  despair 
Filled  the  universal  air  ;  — 
A  sense  of  loneliness  and  void,  — 
A  wealth  of  beauty  unenjoyed,  — 
A  sadness  born  mid  the  excess 
Of  life's  unvalued  loveliness. 

Every  pulse  of  being  panting 

With  a  bliss  it  fain  would  share, 
Still  there  seemed  a  presence  wanting, 
Still  some  lost  ideal  haunting 
All  the  lone  and  lustrous  air. 

Far  off  I  heard  the  solemn  chimes 

Of  Life  and  Death,  - 
The  rhythm  of  ancestral  rhymes 

Above,  —  beneath  ! 

"  Light  in  shadow  ever  fading,  — 
Death  on  Life's  bright  realm  invading, 
Pain  with  pleasure  keeping  measure,  — 
Wasting  care  with  golden  treasure. 

So  the  ancient  burden  rang, 

So  the  choral  voices  sang. 

Though  beautiful  on  all  the  hills 
The  summer  noonlight  lay, 


NOON.  Ill 

Far  in  the  west  a  single  cloud 
Lay  folded  like  a  fleecy  shroud, 

Ready  to  veil  its  ray. 
And  over  all  a  purple  pall 

Seemed  waiting  for  the  day. 

I  heard  far,  phantom  voices  calling 

Over  all  the  flowery  wold,  — 
O'er  the  westering  meadows  falling 

Into  slopes  of  gleamy  gold  ;  — 

Still  I  heard  them  calling,  —  calling,  — 
Through  the  dim,  entangled  glooms,  — 

Far  through  sunless  valleys  falling 
Downward  to  a  place  of  tombs. 

Near  me  pressed  a  vassal  throng, 
Slaves  to  custom,  serfs  to  wrong  — 
Hollow-hearted,  vain  and  cold, 
Minions  of  the  earthly  mold  ; 
Holding  in  supreme  derision 
Memories  of  the  life  Elysian, 
Reckless  of  the  birthright  lost, 
Heedless  of  the  heavenly  host, 
Traitors  to  the  Holy  Ghost ! 


112  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

Haunted  by  a  nameless  terror,  — 
Thrilled  by  a  foreboding  breath, 
As  the  aspen  wildly  trembles 

When  the  winds  are  still  as  death,  — 
I  sought  amid  the  sadness  drear 
Some  loved  familiar  face  to  cheer 
The  solitude,  —  some  lingering  tone 
Of  love  ere  love  and  hope  had  flown. 

I  heard  a  low  voice  breathe  my  name : 
Was  it  the  echo  of  my  own,  — 
That  weird  and  melancholy  tone,  — 

That  voice  whose  subtle  sweetness  came 

Kten  as  the  serpent's  tongue  of  flame  ? 

So  near,  its  music  seemed  to  me 

The  music  of  my  heart  to  be. 

Still  I  heard  it,  nearer,  clearer, 
When  all  other  songs  had  flown, 

Floating  round  me  till  it  bound  me 
In  a  wild  world  of  its  own. 

Suddenly  a  chill  wind  leapt 
Through  its  woven  harmonies  ; 

All  its  silver  chords  were  snapt 
As  a  wind-harp's  by  the  breeze. 


NOON,  113 

A  shudder  through  the  silence  crept 
And  death  athwart  the  noonlight  swept. 

Then  came  the  pall,  the  dirge,  the  knell, 
As,  dust  to  dust,  the  earth-clods  fell, 
Down  crumbling  on  a  coffin  lid, 
Within  whose  narrow  casket  hid,  — 
Shut  from  the  cheerful  light  of  day,  — 
Buried,  yet  quick,  my  own  heart  lay. 

Graves  closed  round  my  path  of  life, 

The  beautiful  had  fled  ; 
Pale  shadows  wandered  by  my  side, 

And  whispered  of  the  dead. 
The  far  off  hollow  of  the  sky 

Seemed  like  an  idle  mockery,  — 
The  vaulted  hollow  of  the  sky, 

With  its  blue  depths  of  mystery 

But  rounded  Death's  vast  empery. 

O'erwearied  with  life's  restless  change 

From  ecstacy  to  agony, 
Its  fleeting  pleasures  born  to  die, 

The  mirage  of  its  fantasy, 
Its  worn  and  melancholy  range 
Of  hopes  that  could  no  more  estrange 

The  married  heart  of  memory, 
8 


1 14  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

Doomed,  while  we  drain  life's  perfumed  wine, 
For  the  dull  Lethean  wave  to  pine, 
And,  for  each  thrill  of  joy,  to  know 
Despair's  slow  pulse  or  sorrow's  throe,  — 
I  sought  some  central  truth  to  span 

These  wide  extremes  of  good  and  ill,  — 
I  longed  with  one  bold  glance  to  scan 

Life's  perfect  sphere,  to  rend  at  will 
The  gloom  of  Erebus,  —  dread  zone, 
Coiled  like  a  serpent  round  the  throne 
Of  Heaven,  —  the  realm  where  Justice  veils 
Her  heart  and  holds  her  even  scales,  — 
Where  awful  Nemesis  awaits 
The  doomed,  by  Pluto's  iron  gates. 

In  the  long  noon-tide  of  my  sorrow, 
I  questioned  of  the  eternal  morrow  ; 

I  gazed  in  sullen  awe 
Far  through  the  illimitable  gloom 
Down -deepening  like  the  swift  maelstrom, 

The  doubting  soul  to  draw 
Into  eternal  solitudes, 
Where  unrelenting  silence  broods 

Around  the  throne  of  Law. 

I  questioned  the  dim  chronicle 
Of  ages  gone  before,  — 


NOON.  115 

I  listened  for  the  triumph  songs 

That  rang  from  shore  to  shore, 
Where    the  ,  heroes    and     the     conquerors 
wrought 

The  mighty  deeds  of  yore, — 
Where  the  foot-prints  of  the  martyrs 

Had  bathed  the  earth  in  gore, 
And  the  war-horns  of  the  warriors 

Were  heard  from  shore  to  shore. 

Their  blood  on  desert  plains  was  shed,  — 
Their  voices  on  the  wind  had  fled,  — 
They  were  the  drear  and  shadowy  DEAD  ! 

Still,  through  the  storied  past,  I  sought 
An  answer  to  my  sleepless  thought ; 
In  the  cloisters  old  and  hoary 

Of  the  mediaeval  time  — 
In  the  rude  ancestral  story 

Of  the  ancient  Runic  rhyme. 

I  paused  on  Grecian  plains,  to  trace 
Some  remnant  of  a  mightier  race, 
Serene  in  sorrow'  and  in  strife, 
Calm  conquerors  of  Death  and  Life, 
Types  of  the  god-like  forms  that  shone 
Upon  the  sculptured  Parthenon. 


Il6  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

But  still,  as  when  Prometheus  bare 

From  heaven  the  fiery  dart, 
I  saw  the  "  vulture  passions  "  tear 

The  proud  Caucasian  heart,1  — 
The  war  of  destiny  with  will 
Still  conquered,  yet  conflicting  still. 

I  heard  loud  Hallelujahs 

From  Israel's  golden  lyre, 
And  I  sought  their  great  Jehovah 

In  the  cloud  and  in  the  fire. 
I  lingered  by  the  stream  that  flowed 
"  Fast  by  the  oracle  of  God,"  — 
I  bowed,  its  sacred  wave  to  sip  ;  — 
Its  waters  fled  my  thirsting  lip. 
The  serpent  trail  was  over  all 

Its  borders,  —  and  its  palms  that  threw 
Aloft  their  waving  coronal, 

Were  blistered  by  a  poison  dew. 

Serener  elements  I  sought, 
Sublimer  altitudes  of  thought, 

1  Gustav  Klemm,  in  a  work  entitled  Allgemeitu  Cnlturge- 
schichte  der  Menschheit,  divides  the  human  races  into  the  active 
and  passive  :  the  former  (embracing  only  the  so-called  Cau 
casian  race)  marked  by  restless  activity  and  aspiration,  prog 
ress  and  the  spirit  of  doubt  and  inquiry  ;  the  latter  (comprising 
all  the  remaining  races),  by  an  absence  or  inferiority  of  these 
characteristics. 


NOON.  117 

The  truth  Saint  John  and  Plato  saw, 
The  mystic  light,  the  inward  law  ; 
The  Logos  ever  found  and  lost, 
The  aureola  of  the  Ghost. 

I  hailed  its  faint  auroral  beam 

In  many  a  Poet's  Delphic  dream,  — 

On  many  a  shrine  where  faith's  pure  flame 

Through  fable's  gorgeous  oriel  came. 

Around  the  altars  of  the  god, 
In  holy  passion  hushed,  I  trod, 
Where  once  the  mighty  voice  of  Jove 
Rang  through  Dodona's  haunted  grove. 
No  more  the  dove  with  sable  plumes  l 
Swept  through  the  forest's  gorgeous  glooms  ; 
The  shrines  were  desolate  and  cold, 
Their  paeans  hushed,  their  story  told, 
In  long,  inglorious  silence  lost, 
Like  fiery  tongues  of  Pentecost. 

No  more  did  music's  golden  surge 
The  mortal  in  immortal  merge  : 

1  "  The  priestesses  of  Dodona  assert  that  two  black  pigeons 
flew  from  Thebes  in  Egypt ;  one  of  which  settled  in  Lybia, 
the  other  among  themselves  :  which  latter,  resting  on  a  beech- 
tree,  declared  with  a  human  voice  that  here  was  to  be  the  or 
acle  of  Jove."  — HERODOTUS,  Book  II.  ch.  55. 


Il8  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

High  canticles  of  joy  and  praise 
Died  with  the  dream  of  other  clays  ; 
I  only  heard  the  Mrenad's  wail,  — 
That  shriek  that  made  the  orient  pale : 
Evohe  !  —  ah  —  Evohe  ! 
The  mystic  burden  of  a  woe 
Whose  dark  enigma  none  may  know  ;T 
The  primal  curse,  —  the  primal  throe. 

Evohe  !  —  ah  —  Evohe  !  . 
Nature  shuddered  at  the  cry 
Of  that  ancient  agony  ! 

Still  the  fabled  Python  bound  me,  — 
Still  the  serpent  coil  inwound  me,  — 
Still  I  heard  the  Maenad's  cry, 
Evohe  !  —  ah  —  Evohe  ! 

1  "  The  Maenads,  in  their  wild  incantations,  carried  serpents 
in  their  hands,  and  with  frantic  gestures  cried  out  Eva  !  Eva  ! 
Epiphanius  thinks  that  this  invocation  related  to  the  mother 
of  mankind  ;  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  it  was  the  word 
Epha  or  Opha,  rendered  by  the  Greeks,  Ophis,  a  serpent.  I 
take  Abaddon  to  have  been  the  name  of  the  same  ophite  God 
whose  worship  has  so  long  infected  the  world.  The  learned 
Heinsius  makes  Abaddon  the  same  as  the  serpent  Python." 
—  JACOB  BRYANT'S  Analysis  of  Ancient  Mythology. 

"  While  Mxnads  cry  aloud  Evoe,  Evoe! 
That  voice  that  is  contagion  to  the  world." 

SHELLEY'S  Prometheus. 


NOON.  119 

Where  the  Nile  pours  his  sullen  wave 

Through  tombs  and  empires  of  the  grave, 

I  sought,  'mid  cenotaphs,  to  find 

The  earlier  miracles  of  mind  : 

Alas,  beside  the  funeral  urn 

How  drearily  the  death-lights  burn  ; 

On  dim  Denderah's  sculptured  lore 

How  sad  the  noonlight  falls, 
How  mournfully  the  west  wind  sighs 

Through  Karnak's  moldering  halls  ! 
No  tongue  shall  tell  their  wondrous  tale, 
No  hand  shall  lift  the  Isis  veil  ; 
The  mighty  pyramids  that  rise 
So  drear  along  the  morning  skies, 
Guard  well  the  secrets  of  the  dead, 
Nor  break  the  sleep  of  ages  fled. 

Their  awful  shadow  passed,  I  stood 

On  India's  burning  solitude ; 

Where,  in  the  misty  morning  of  the  world, 

Life  lay  as  in  a  dream  of  beauty  furled. 

I  saw  the  mighty  altars  of  the  Sun,  — 
Before  whose  fires  the  star-gods,  one  by  one, 
Paled  like  thin  ghosts,  —  in  lurid  splendors 

rife ; 
I  heard  the  Persian  hail  him  Lord  of  Life ! 


120  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

I  saw  his  altar-flames  rise  wild  and  high, 
Veiling  the  glory  of  the  noon-day  sky, 
Hiding  the   holy  heavens  with    their   ensan 
guined  dye. 

I  turned,  and  from  the  Brahmin's  milder  law 
I  sought  truth's  mystic  element  to  draw, 
Pure  as  it  sparkled  in  the  cup  of  Heaven,  — 
The  bright  Amreeta  to  the  immortals  given,— 
To  bathe  my  soul  in  fontal  springs,  that  lie 
Veiled  from  the  careless  and  incurious  eye. 

Half  wakened  from  the  brooding  sleep 

Of  Nature  ere  she  felt  the  leap 

Of  sentient  life,  the  Hindoo  seemed 

Sad  as  the  faith  his  fathers  dreamed ; 

Like  his  own  rock-hewn  temples,  wrought 

From  some  obscure  and  shadowy  thought 

Of  ancient  days,  —  some  formless  dread, 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  ages  bred,  — 

Prone  on  his  native  earth  reclined, 

To  endless  reveries  resigned, 

His  dull  soul  lapsing  on  the  Lethean  stream, 

Lost  in  the  dim  world  of  a  lotus  dream. 

Still,  still  the  eternal  mystery, 
The  shadow  of  the  poison-tree 


NOON.  121 

Of  Good  and  Evil  haunted  me. 
In  Religion's  holy  name, 
Furies  fed  her  altar-flame, 
Sophists  gloried  in  her  shame. 
Still  the  ancient  mythus  bound  me, 
Still  the  serpent  coil  inwound  me, 
Still  I  heard  the  Maenad's  cry, 
Evohe  !  —  ah  —  Evohe  ! 

Wearied  with  man's  discordant  creed, 
I  sought  on  Nature's  page  to  read 
Life's  history,  ere  yet  she  shrined 
Her  essence  in  the  incarnate  mind  ; 
Intent  her  secret  laws  to  trace 
In  primal  solitudes  of  space, 
From  her  first,  faint  atomic  throes, 
To  where  her  orbed  splendor  glows 
In  the  vast,  silent  spheres  that  roll 
Forever  towards  their  unknown  goal. 

I  turned  from  dull  alchemic  lore 

With  starry  Chaldeans  to  soar, 

And  sought,  on  fancy's  wing,  to  roam 

That  glorious  galaxy  of  light 
Where  mingling  stars,  like  drifting  foam, 

Melt  on  the  solemn  shores  of  night ; 


122  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

But  still  the  surging  glory  chased 
The  dark  through  night's  chaotic  waste ; 
And  still,  within  its  deepening  voids, 
Crumbled  the  burning  asteroids. 

Long  gloating  on  that  hollow  gloom, 
Methought  that  in  some  vast  maelstrom, 
The  stars  were  hurrying  to  their  doom,  — 
Bubbles  upon  life's  boundless  sea, 
Swift  meteors  of  eternity, 
Pale  sparks  of  mystic  fire,  that  fall 
From  God's  unwaning  coronal. 

Is  there,  I  asked,  a  living  woe 

In  all  those  burning  orbs  that  glow 

Through  the  blue  ether?  —  do  they  share 

Our  dim  world's  anguish  and  despair  ? 

In  their  vast  orbits  do  they  fly 

From  some  avenging  destiny,  — 

And  shall  their  wild  eyes  pale  beneath 

The  dread  anathema  of  Death  ?  — 

Our  own  fair  Earth,  —  shall  she  too  drift, 

Forever  shrouded  in  a  weft 

Of  stormy  clouds,  that  surge  and  swirl 

Around  her  in  her  dizzy  whirl :  — 

Forever  shall  a  shadow  fall 

Backward  from  her  golden  wall, 


NOON.  123 

Its  dark  cone  stretching,  ghast  and  gray, 
Into  outer  glooms  away  ?  — 

From  the  sad,  unsated  quest 

Of  knowledge,  how  I  longed  to  rest 

On  her  green  and  silent  breast ! 

I  languished  for  the  dews  of  death 

My  fevered  heart  to  steep,  — 
The  heavy,  honey-dews  of  death, 

The  calm  and  dreamless  sleep. 

I  left  my  fruitless  lore  apart, 
And  leaned  my  ear  on  Nature's  heart, 
To  hear,  far  from  life's  busy  throng, 
The  chime  of  her  sweet  undersong. 

She  pressed  her  balmy  lips  to  mine, 

She  bathed  me  in  her  sylvan  springs ; 

And  still,  by  many  a  rural  shrine, 

She  taught  me  sweet  and  holy  things. 

I  felt  her  breath  my  temples  fan, 

I  learned  her  temperate  laws  to  scan, 

My  soul,  of  hers,  became  a  conscious  part ; 

Her  beauty  melted  through  my  inmost  heart. 


124  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

Still  I  languished  for  the  word 

Her  sweet  lips  had  never  spoken, 
Still,  from  the  pale  shadow-land, 

There  came  nor  voice  nor  token  ; 
No  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Whispered  of  the  loved  and  lost ; 

No  bright  wanderer  came  to  tell 
If,  in  worlds  beyond  the  grave, 

Life,  love,  and  beauty  dwell. 


EVENING. 


And,  it  shall  come  to  pass,  that  at  evening  time  it  shall  be  light." 

ZECHARIAH  xiv.  7. 

"  All  the  dawn  promised  shall  the  day  fulfill, 
The  glory  and  the  grandeur  of  each  dream  ; 
And  every  prophecy  shall  be  achieved, 
And  every  joy  conceded,  prove  a  pledge 
Of  some  new  joy  to  come." 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


WILDER  and  lonelier  grew  the  day : 
The  vault  of  heaven  once  so  high,  — 
Fading  to  infinity,  — 
Now  bowed  by  its  own  weight  of  gloom, 
Seemed  dark  and  low-browed  as  a  tomb. 
Cold,  sculptured  hills,  forlorn  and  gray, 
Like  sun-forsaken  Memnons,  lay 
Around  my  drear  and  pathless  way. 
The  thunder  rolled  ;  and  loud  and  shrill 
The  storm-blast  shrieked  from  hill  to  hill. 

Beside  the  lamp  within  the  veil 
Of  the  soul's  temple  burning  pale, 


126  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

I  sought,  in  self-renouncing  prayer, 

Truth's  guarded  secrets  to  forbear, 

Till  lowly  trust  the  right  should  earn 

Life's  golden  meanings  to  discern. 

I  sought  in  ministries  of  love 

The  purchase  of  the  Cross  to  prove,  — 

The  mysteries  of  the  Holy  Rood 

In  sorrow's  pale  beatitude. 

Content,  through  lowering  clouds,  to  greet 

The  glory  of  the  Paraclete ; 

I  sought,  within  the  inner  shrine, 

The  Father-God  of  Palestine. 

A  holy  light  began  to  stream 

Athwart  the  cloud-rifts,  like  a  dream 

Of  Heaven  ;  and  lo  !  a  pale,  sweet  face, 

Of  mournful  grandeur  and  imperial  grace, — 

A  face  whose  mystic  sadness  seemed  to  borrow 

Immortal  beauty  from  that  mortal  sorrow 

Looked  on  me  ;  and  a  voice  of  solemn  cheer 

Uttered  its  sweet  evangels  on  my  ear ; 

The  open  secrets  of  that  eldest  lore 

That  seems  less  to  reveal  than  to  restore. 

"  Pluck  thou  the  Life-tree's  golden  fruit, 
Nor  seek  to  bare  its  sacred  root : 
Live,  and  in  life's  perennial  faith 
Renounce  the  heresy  of  death  ; 


EVENING.  127 

Believe,  and  every  sweet  accord 
Of  being,  to  thine  ear  restored, 
Shall  sound  articulate  and  clear ; 
Perfected  love  shall  banish  fear, 
Knowledge  and  wisdom  shall  approve 
The  divine  synthesis  of  love." 

"  Royally  the  lilies  grow 
On  the  grassy  leas, 
Basking  in  the  sun  and  dew, 
Swinging  in  the  breeze. 
Doth  the  wild-fowl  need  a  chart 
Through  the  illimitable  air  ? 
Heaven  lies  folded  in  thy  heart ; 
Seek  the  truth  that  slumbers  there ; 
Thou  art  Truth's  eternal  heir." 

"  Let  the  shadows  come  and  go  ; 
Let  the  stormy  north  wind  blow  : 
Death's  dark  valley  cannot  bind  thee 
In  its  dread  abode ; 

There  the  Morning  Star  shall  find  thee, 
There  the  living  God. 
Sin  and  sorrow  cannot  hide  thee,  — 
Death  and  hell  cannot  divide  thee 
From  the  love  of  God." 


128  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

In  the  mystic  agony 

On  the  Mount  of  Calvary, 

The  Saviour  with  his  dying  eyes 

Beheld  the  groves  of  Paradise. 

"Then  weep  not  by  the  charnel  stone, 
Nor  veil  thine  eyelids  from  the  sun. 
Upward,  through  the  death-dark  glides 
The  spirit  on  resurgent  tides 
Of  light  and  glory  on  its  way : 
Wilt  thou  by  the  cerements  stay  ?  — 
Thou  the  risen  Christ  shalt  see 
In  redeemed  Humanity. 
Though  mourners  at  the  portal  wept, 
And  angels  lingered  where  it  slept, 
The  soul  but  tarried  for  a  night, 
Then  plumed  its  wings  for  loftier  flight." 

"  Is  thy  heart  so  lonely  ?  —  Lo, 
Ready  to  share  thy  joy  and  woe, 
Poor  wanderers  tarry  at  thy  gate, 
The  way-worn  and  the  desolate  ; 
And  angels  at  thy  threshold  wait : 
Wouldst  thou  love's  holiest  guerdon  win  ? 
Arise,  and  let  the  stranger  in." 


EVENING.  129 

"  The  friend  whom  not  thy  fickle  will, 
But  the  deep  heart  within  thee,  still 
Yearneth  to  fold  to  its  embrace, 
Shall  seek  thee  through  the  realms  of  space. 
Keep  the  image  Nature  sealed 
On  thy  heart,  by  love  annealed, 
Keep  thy  faith  serene  and  pure ; 
Her  royal  promises  are  sure, 
Her  sweet  betrothals  shall  endure." 

"  Hope  thou  all  things,  and  believe ; 
And,  in  child-like  trust,  achieve 
The  simplest  mandates  of  the  soul, 
The  simplest  good,  the  nearest  goal ; 
Move  but  the  waters,  and  their  pulse 
The  broad  ocean  shall  convulse." 

"When  love  shall  reconcile  the  will 
Love's  mystic  sorrow  to  fulfill, 
Its  fiery  baptism  to  share,  — 
The  burden  of  its  cross  to  bear,  — 
Earth  shall  to  equilibrium  tend, 
Ellipses  shall  to  circles  bend, 
And  life's  long  agony  shall  end." 

"  Then  pluck  the  Life-tree's  golden  fruit ; 
No  blight  can  reach  its  sacred  root. 
9 


130  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

E'en  though  every  blossom  fell 
Into  Hades,  one  by  one, 
Love  is  deeper  far  than  Hades,  — 
Shadows  cannot  quench  the  sun." 

"  Can  the  child-heart  promise  more 
Than  the  Father  hath  in  store  ?  — 
The  blind  shall  see,  — the  dead  shall  live  ; 
Can  the  man-child  forfeit  more 
Than  the  Father  can  forgive  ? 
The  Dragon,  from  his  empire  driven, 
No  more  shall  find  his  place  in  Heaven, 
Till  e'en  the  Serpent  power  approve 
The  divine  potency  of  love." 

"  Guard  thy  faith  with  holy  care,  - 
Mystic  virtues  slumber  there  ; 
'T  is  the  lamp  within  the  soul 
Holding  genii  in  control : 
Faith  shall  walk  the  stormy  water, — 
In  the  unequal  strife  prevail,  — 
Nor,  when  comes  the  dread  avatar, 
From  its  fiery  splendors  quail. 
Faith  shall  triumph  o'er  the  grave, 
Love  shall  bless  the  life  it  gave." 

I  heard  ;  and  in  my  heart  the  incarnate  Word 
Uttered,  serene  and  clear,  its  sweet  accord,  — 


EVENING.  131 

To  Him  that  sitteth  on  the  eternal  throne, 
All    power    and    grace    earth's    discord    to 

atone,  — 

To  the  great  Soul  that  foldeth  all  in  one, 
Father  in  Heaven,  I  cried,  thy  will  be  done ! 

Then  faintly,  with  my  heart's  low  music  blend 
ing, 

I  heard  a  sound  of  silver  wings  descending : 
The  Holy  Dove  of  Peace,  the  promised  guest, 
Folded  its  fragrant  pinions  on  my  breast. 

Life  into  lines  of  beauty  flowed 

Around  me,  flexuous  and  free ; 

The  passive  face  of  Nature  showed 

A  sweet,  responsive  sympathy  ; 

And  dimly,  through  the  Human,  glowed 

The  lineaments  of  Deity. 

I  saw  the  frowning  orbs  of  Fate 
Into  a  regent  calm  dilate  — 
A  sovran  and  superb  disdain 
Of  earth's  fast-fleeting  joy  and  pain  ; 
While  patience  budding  into  peace, 
And  knowledge  ripening  into  power, 
And  thought  with  its  pale  alchemy, 
Made  beautiful  the  passing  hour  ; 


132  HOURS  OF  LIFE. 

Till  morn  and  noonlight  seemed  to  fuse 

Their  glory  with  its  fading  hues, 

As  the  fair  outline  of  my  day, 

From  dawn  to  twilight's  golden  gray, 

Rose  grandly  on  the  prescient  soul, 

Crowned  with  the  sunset's  aureole. 

Far  off,  among  the  Norland  hills, 

The  distant  thunders  rolled  ; 

Soft  rain-clouds  dipped  their  fringes  down 

Across  the  evening  gold. 

Heaven's  stormy  dome  was  rent,  and  high 

Above  me  shone  the  summer  sky ; 

Ever  more  serene  it  grew, 

Fading  off  into  the  blue, 

Till  the  boundless  hyaline 

Seemed  melting  into  depths  divine, 

And  the  angels  came  and  went 

Through  the  opening  firmament. 

In  all  the  glooming  hollows  lay 

A  light  more  beautiful  than  day  ; 

All  the  blossom  bells  waved  slowly 

In  the  evening's  golden  calm, 

And  the  hum  of  distant  voices 

Sounded  like  a  vesper  psalm. 


EVENING.  133 

Till  dimly  seen,  through  day's  departing  bloom, 
The  far-off  lamps  of  heaven  began  to  fling 
Their   trembling    beams    athwart    the    dewy 

gloom, 

As  Evening,  on  the  horizon's  airy  ring, 
Winnowing  the  darkness  with  her  silver  wing, 
Descended  like  an  angel,  calm  and  still. 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS. 


SONNETS. 

TO   ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING. 

I. 

"  O  perpetui  fieri 
Dell'  eterna  letizia !  " 

IL  PARADISO. 

FAIR  Sibyl,  sitting  in  thy  "  House  of  Clouds," 

Shrined,  like  some  solitary  star,  above 
The  dull,  cold  shadow  that  our  earth  enshrouds, 

How  oft  my  spirit  looks  to  thee  in  love ! 
To  thy  "  Lost  Bower  "  how  oft  in  dreams  re 
turning, 

I  see  thee  standing  in  the  sylvan  room,  — 
See  the  red  sun-light  in  the  rose-cups  burning, 

And   the  sweet  blue-bells  nodding  through 

the  gloom  : 
Again  I  hear  thy  grand  and  solemn  dirges 

To  the  dim  "  Gods  of  Hellas,"  like  the  breeze 
O'er  lone  savannas  sighing,  or  the  surges 

That  wash  the  sands  of  solitary  seas  ; 
Then,  in  calm  waves  of  glory,  swells  the  strain, 

"  Christ  from  the  dead  hath  risen  and  shall 
reign !  " 


138  SONNETS. 


II. 

"  Ad  una  vista 

D'un  gran  palazzo  Michol  ammirava 
Si  come  donna  dispettosa  e  trista." 

IL  PURGATORIO. 

SOMETIMES  I  see  thee,  pale  with  scorn  and  sor 
row, 

At  a  great  palace  window,  looking  forth, 
To-day  on  plumed  Florentines,  —  to-morrow 

Upon  the  hireling  legions  of  the  North  : 
Sometimes  o'er  little  children  bending  lowly, 
To   hear   their   cry,   in  the    dark    factories 

drowned ; 
Ah,  then  thy  pitying  brow  grows  sweet  and 

holy, 

With  a  saint's  aureole  of  sorrow  crowned  ! 
But  most  I  love  thee  when  that  mystic  glory  — 

Kindling  at  horrors  that  abhor  the  day  — 
Sheds  a  wild,  stormy  splendor  o'er  the  story 

Of  the  dark  fugitive,  who  turned  away 
To  death's  cold  threshold,  calm  in  death's  dis 
dain, 

From  the  "White  Pilgrim's   Rock,"  beside 
the  western  main. 


SONNETS.  139 


III. 

"  Or  discendiamo  omai  a  maggior  pieta." 

L'lNFHRNO. 


AY,  most  I  love  thee  when  thy  starry  song 
Stoops  to  the  plague-spot  that  we  dare  not 

name, 
And  bares  with  burning  breath  the  envenomed 

wrong  — 

Our  country's  dark  inheritance  of  shame. 
When  our  blaspheming  synods  look  thereon, 
Stifling  God's  law  and  Nature's  noble  ires 
With  the  cold  ashes  of  dead  council-fires, 
That  Gorgon  terror  chills  them  into  stone. 
Yet  while   they   cringe   and   palter,  thy  true 

heart, 

Serene  in  love's  own  light  and  woman's  ruth, 
Loyal  to  God  and  to  God's  living  truth, 
Hath  uttered  words  whose  fulgent  rays  shall 

dart 
Like  sunbeams  through  our  land's  Tartarean 

gloom, 

Till  freedom's  holy  law  its  Stygian  depths  il 
lume. 


TO  PERDITA. 

WHAT  holds  thy  dreamy  eyes  in  thrall  ? 
A  sombre  picture  on  the  wall ; 1 
A  sombre  picture,  weird  and  cold, 
That  dims  the  daylight's  morning  gold. 

A  grass-grown  rampart,  lifting  high 

Its  reedy  fringe  against  the  sky  ; 

Half  lost  in  its  o'ershadowing  gloom, 

The  semblance  of  a  moldering  tomb  ; 

Upon  the  tablet,  side  by  side, 

In  pomp  of  old  heraldic  pride, 

Two  sculptured  figures  lying  stark 

And  dumb  within  the  glimmering  dark; 

A  raven  on  the  moldering  tomb  ; 

An  owlet  flitting  through  the  gloom  ; 

A  cold,  white,  wandering  moon,  that  seems 

The  ghost  of  long-forgotten  dreams  ; 

In  the  high  rampart  an  old  door, 

Where  night  winds  enter  :  nothing  more. 

1  Midnight.     By  G.  H.  Boughton. 


TO  PERDITA.  141 

Why  doth  it  hold  thine  eyes  in  thrall, 
This  sombre  picture  on  the  wall, 
That  dims  the  daylight's  glad  return, 
And  shrineth  darkness  like  an  urn  ? 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  grave 
O'er  which  the  winds  of  memory  wave, 
Where,  sepulchred  in  marble  pride, 
Thy  dead  hopes  slumber,  side  by  side, 
Lost  to  the  future's  dawning  light, 
And  shrined  in  immemorial  night  ? 

Ah  !  never  hope  of  thine  shall  sleep 
Within  oblivion's  donjon-keep. 
Thy  dreams  were  born  to  soar  afar 
Beyond  the  morning's  purple  star  ; 
Thy  loyal  heart  shall  re-create 
From  loss  and  wrong  a  loftier  fate  ; 
Thy  own  deep  heart  of  love  illume 
Thy  life  with  love's  immortal  bloom. 
On  thy  white  brow,  absolved  from  blame, 
A  shining  stone,  with  a  new  name, 
Shall  flood  the  dark  with  living  flame  ; 
Thy  life,  a  perfume  and  a  prayer, 
With  mystic  fragrance  fill  the  air, 
And  all  thy  buried  hopes  shall  rise 
Transfigured  into  destinies. 

1859- 


A  PANSY  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS. 

"  That's  for  thoughts!"— SHAKESPEARE. 

THREE  velvet  petals  darkly  spread 

In  sumptuous  sorrow  for  the  dead, 

Superbly  sombre  as  a  pall 

Wrought  for  an  elfin  funeral  ; 

Two,  hued  like  wings  of  silver  light 

Unfurled  for  Psyche's  heavenward  flight ; 

And  every  petal,  o'er  and  o'er, 

All  legended  with  faery  lore, 

A  palimpsest  of  fables  old 

And  mythic  stories  manifold. 

Endymion  in  enchanted  swoon 
Tranced  by  the  melancholy  moon ; 
And,  hovering  near,  the  crescent-crowned 
Diana,  with  her  sylvan  hound  ;  — 
The  virgin  huntress,  proud  and  pale, 
Betrayed  to  passion's  blissful  bale, 
Till  all  her  beautiful  disdain 
Is  lost  in  love's  imperial  pain. 


A  PANSY  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS.   143 

Sad,  star-eyed  Lamia's  serpent  spell, 
And  the  wild  dirge  of  Isabel. 

Hyperion  in  his  palace  bright, 
Bastioned  with  pyramids  of  light, 
Kindling  the  dawn  with  fiery  breath, 
Battling  with  Darkness  and  with  Death,  — 
The  pregnant  fable  left  half  told,  - 
A  fading  blush  of  morning  gold. 

The  story  of  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 

The  tale  where  legioned  fairies  weave 

Their  spells  within  the  moonlit  gloom 

Of  Madeline's  enchanted  room. 

The  casement,  triple-arched  and  high, 

Enwrought  with  antique  tracery,  — 

The  blazoned  window's  gorgeous  panes 
That  blush  with  old  heraldic  stains ; 
The  broidered  kirtle  on  the  floor, 
The  jeweled  casket's  gleaming  store ; 
The  chamber,  silken,  hushed  and  chill, 
Where  Madeline  lies  dreaming  still, 
Lost  in  the  lap  of  legends  old, 
And  curtained  from  the  moonlight  cold, 
Till,  lowly  kneeling  at  her  side, 
The  minstrel-lover  woos  his  bride. 


144  A  PANSY  FROM  THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS. 

I  hear  afar  the  wassail  roar 
Surge  through  the  distant  corridor, 
As  through  the  ancient,  bannered  halls 
The  midnight  music  swells  and  falls ; 
The  castle  lamps  are  all  aglow  ; 
The  silver-snarling  trumpets  blow. 
'T  was  ages,  ages  long  ago, 
The  vigil  of  St.  Agnes'  Night, 
The  ruse,  the  revel,  and  the  flight ; 
But,  till  love's  faery  lore  be  past, 
The  charm  of  Agnes'  Eve  shall  last. 

The  poet  sleeps,  and  pansies  bloom 
Beside  his  far  Italian  tomb ; 
The  turf  is  heaped  above  his  bed  ; 
The  stone  is  moldering  at  his  head ; 
But  each  fair  creature  of  his  dream, 
Transferred  to  daylight's  common  beam, 
Lives  the  charmed  life  that  waneth  never, 
A  Beauty  and  a  Joy  forever. 

1859. 


APPLE-BLOOMS. 

TO   CARRIE,   BY    HER    COUSIN. 

You  had  been  robbing  apple-trees,  — 
Robbing  rosy  apple-trees,  — 
Stealing  from  the  honey-bees 

Stores  of  sweetness,  while  I  lay, 
In  the  twilight's  tender  gray, 
Dreaming  of  orchards  far  away,    — 

Pale  orchard  blooms  that  fell  like  rain 
Upon  a  far-off  phantom  plain,  — 
Dear  days  that  would  not  dawn  again, 

And  May-moons  that  would  rise  no  more 
When  softly  through  the  open  door 
A  cloud  of  perfume  seemed  to  pour, 

And  then  I  saw  two  faces  loom 
Through  tufts  of  pearly  apple-bloom, 
Filling  with  rose-light  all  the  room,  — 

10 


146  APPLE-BLOOMS. 

Two  fair  young  faces,  smiling  through 
The  pink-white  blossoms,  and  I  knew 
The  May-queen's  messengers  in  you. 

I  knew  the  orchard  slopes  were  fair,  — 
I  knew  the  winds  that  lingered  there 
O'er-swept  them  with  enchanted  air  ! 

I  saw  the  branches  toss  and  swing, 

Heard  the  bee's  elfin  bugle  ring, 

And  owned  the  presence  of  the  Spring. 

May,  1860. 


NIGHT  WANES. 

NIGHT  wanes  :   the  nation's  travail,  throe  by 

throe, 
Brings  on  the  hour  that  shall  absolve  her 

sin  ; 

And  the  great,  solemn  bells,  now  swinging  slow, 
With  tales  of  murder  in  their  iron  din, 
Shall  ring  the  years  of  peace  and  freedom 
in. 

Be   patient,  O  my  heart ;   look   through   the 

gloom 

Of  the  sad  present,  look  through  all  the  past, 
And   learn   how,   out   of   sin   and   death  and 

doom, 

And  mournful  tragedies,  august  and  vast, 
The  world's  great  victories  are  achieved  at 
last. 


148  NIGHT  WANES. 

Look  far  away  ;  count  all  the  triumphs  bought 

By  martyred  saints,  found  worthy  to  atone 
For  others'  sin,  see  life  from  death  outwrought, 
And  know  each  blast  from  War's  wild  bugle 

blown 

Shall  melt  in  music  round  the  "  Great  White 
Throne." 

1861. 


NIGHT  AND  STORM. 

I  SAW  the  waning  August  moon 

Rise  o'er  the  rocky  shore, 
And  on  a  sad  and  stormy  sea 

Its  lurid  crimson  pour. 

My  window  opened  to  the  east, 

And  far  and  far  away, 
I  saw  the  headlong  billows  breast 

The  breakers  of  the  bay. 

The  broad  red  sea  seemed  like  a  field 
Where  charging  squadrons  go  : 

I  heard  the  clang  of  spear  and  shield, 
I  heard  the  clarions  blow. 

Near  me  the  dancers'  flying  feet, 
With  sounds  of  harp  and  horn, 

And  wild  waltz-music,  madly  sweet, 
Were  on  the  night-winds  borne. 

Rich  voices  lingered  on  the  ear, 
And  laughter  floated  by, 


I5O  NIGHT  AND  STORM. 

And  many  a  call  of  merry  cheer, 
And  many  a  glad  reply. 

I  only  watched  the  trampling  feet 
Of  waves  upon  the  shore  ; 

I  only  heard  their  war-drums  beat, 
Their  plunging  batteries  roar. 

I  thought  on  many  a  bannered  plain, 
On  battles  lost  and  won, 

On  homes  bereft  and  heroes  slain, 
And  armies  marching  on. 

The  wild  waltz-music  died  away, 
The  laughter  and  the  glee, 

But  all  night  long  a  stormy  song 
Seemed  sounding  from  the  sea  : 

A  wail  of  trumpets  in  the  air, 
A  dead  march  on  the  wave, 

Wild  tones  of  triumph  or  despair 
O'er  all  our  martyred  brave. 

I  hailed  Jehovah's  fiery  sword 

In  battles  lost  and  won  ; 
I  hailed  the  armies  of  the  Lord 

And  heard  them  marching  on. 
OCEAN  HOUSE,  Cape  Elizabeth,  August,  1863. 


DON  ISLE. 

Cromwell's  siege  of  the  sea-girt  castle  and  fortress  of  Don  Isle,  which  was 
heroically  defended  by  a  female  descendant  of  Nicholas  Le  Poer,  Baron  of 
Don  Isle,  is,  as  represented  by  Sir  Bernard  Burke  in  his  Romance  of  Irish 
History,  full  of  legendary  interest. 

LONELY  beneath  the  silent  stars 

It  stands,  a  gray  and  moldering  pile, 
Wreck'd  in  the  wild  Cromwellian  wars, 

The  sea-girt  castle  of  Don  Isle. 
The  wild  waves  beat  the  castle  wall, 

And  bathe  the  rock  with  ceaseless  showers; 
Dark  heaving  billows  plunge  and  fall 

In  whitening  foam  beneath  the  towers. 

High  beetling  o'er  the  headland's  brow 

All  seam'd  and  battle-scarr'd  it  stands, 
And  rents  and  gaping  ruins  show 

The  ravage  of  the  spoiler's  hands. 
Two  hundred  years  have  rolled  away, 

And  still,  at  twilight's  haunted  hour, 
A  ghostly  lady  seems  to  stray 

By  ruined  barbacan  and  tower. 


152  DON  ISLE. 

Dauntless  within  her  lone  domain 

She  held  at  bay  her  father's  foe, 
Till  faithless  followers  fired  the  train 

That  laid  her  feudal  fortress  low. 
Afar  her  exiled  kinsmen  roam  ; 

She  perished  in  the  smoldering  pile, 
The  last  of  all  her  house  and  home, 

The  lonely  lady  of  Don  Isle. 

The  gray  moss  gathers  on  the  wall, 

And  slow  beneath  the  silent  stars 
The  crumbling  turrets  waste  and  fall 

Wrecked  in  the  wild  Cromwellian  wars 
And  peasants  round  their  evening  fire 

With  many  a  tale  the  hours  beguile, 
Of  warrior  ghosts  and  spectres  dire 

That  haunt  the  castle  of  Don  Isle. 

1864. 


NIGHTFALL  ON  THE  SEACONNET  SHORE. 

To  R.  D.  S. 

WE  sat  together,  you  and  I, 

And  watched  the  daylight's  dying  bloom, 
And  saw  the  great  white  ships  go  by^. 

Like  phantoms  through  the  gathering  gloom. 

Like  phantom  lights  the  lonely  stars 

Looked  through  the  sea-fog's  ghastly  veil, 

Beyond  the  headland's  rocky  bars 
We  heard  the  stormy  surges  wail. 

We  sat  together,  hand  in  hand, 

Upon  the  lonely,  sea-girt  wall, 
And  watched  along  the  glimmering  strand, 

The  wild,  white  breakers  plunge  and  fall. 

You  spoke  of  pleasures  past  away, 
Of  hopes  that  left  the  heart  forlorn, 

Of  life's  unrest  and  love's  decay, 
And  lonely  sorrows  proudly  borne. 


154  NIGHTFALL  ON  THE  SEACONNET  SHOKE. 

The  sea's  phantasmal  sceneries 

Commingled  with  your  mournful  theme ; 

The  splendors  of  your  starry  eyes 

Were     drowned     in    memory's     deepening 
dream. 

Darker  and  lonelier  grew  the  night 
Along  the  horizon's  dreary  verge, 

And  lonelier  through  the  lessening  light 
Sang  the  wild  sea-wind's  wailing  dirge. 

When,  kindling  through  the  gathering  gloom, 
Beyond  West-Island's  beetling  brow, 

Where  breakers  dash,  and  surges  boom, 
We  saw  Point  Judith's  fires  aglow. 

Piercing  night's  solemn  mystery, 

The  light-house  reared  its  lonely  form, 

Serene  above  the  weltering  sea 

And  guardant  through  the  gathering  storm. 

So,  o'er  the  sea  of  life's  unrest, 

Through   griefs   wild    storm,   and  sorrow's 

gloom, 
Faith's  heavenly  pharos  in  the  breast 

Lights  up  the  dark  with  deathless  bloom. 


NIGHTFALL  ON  THE  SEACONNET  SHORE.  155 

The  sea-born  sadness  of  the  hour 

Melted  beneath  its  holy  spell ; 
Faith  blossomed  into  perfect  flower, 

And  our  hearts  whispered,  "  All  is  well." 

1864. 


TO  "  SHIRLEY  :  " 

The  good  Santa  Claus  who  sent  me  David  Gray's  Poems. 

DEAR  Santa  Claus,  your  reindeer  hoof 

Fell  soft  as  snow-flakes  on  the  roof 

That  spanned  my  hall  of  dreams  last  night, 

And  when  I  woke,  the  morning  light 

Was  lovelier,  and  the  wintry  day 

More  fair  for  you  and  David  Gray  : 

His  summer  moons,  his  autumn  nights, 

The  glamour  of  his  sunset  lights, 

His  red  dawns  and  their  rosy  glow 

On  the  white  wonder  of  the  snow ; 

The  sadness  of  his  poet-soul 

That  looked  beyond  life's  mortal  goal, 

For  the  great  glory  that  should  pour, 

Through  golden  death's  immortal  door. 

Entranced  I  lie  the  livelong  day, 
Dreaming  of  you  and  David  Gray,  — 
Dreaming  I  see  the  daylight  fade 
Across  the  castled  palisade 


TO   "SHIRLEY."  157 

Of  sunset  clouds  ;  it  dies  and  dies 
Into  diviner  harmonies. 
Sweet,  haunting  faces  light  the  gloorn 
Of  twilight  in  my  lonely  room,  — 
Proud  poet-faces,  sad  and  stern, 
To  whom  earth  gave  a  marble  urn 
That  could  nor  life  nor  love  restore : 
This,  "  only  this,  and  nothing  more ! " 

The  page  grows  dim,  and  solemn  night, 
Drops  her  rich  curtain  o'er  the  light, 
Till,  fold  on  fold,  its  dusky  fall 
Shuts  out  the  far  horizon  wall : 
The  stars  begin  to  glint  and  spark 
Across  the  purple  of  the  dark, 
And  all  the  happy  winter  day, 
Made  fair  through  you  and  David  Gray, 
Melts  in  a  heavenly  dream  away ! 

December  25,  1865. 


PROSERPINE    TO   PLUTO   IN   HADES. 

"  Nee  repetita  sequi  curet  Proserpina  matrem." 

VIRGIL,  Georg.  I.  39. 

I  THINK  on  thee  amid  these  spring-time  flowers, 

On  thee,  my  emperor,  my  sovran  lord, 
Dwelling  alone  in  dim  Tartarean  towers 

Of  thy  dark  realm,  by  earth  and  heaven  ab 
horred, 

Wandering  afar  by  that  Avernian  river 
Where  dead  kings  walk  and  phantoms  wail  for 
ever. 

I  think  on  thee  in  that  stern  palace  regnant, 
Where  no  sweet  voice  of  summer  charms  the 

air, 
Where  the  vast  solitude  seems  ever  pregnant 

With  some  wild  dream  of  unforetold  despair. 
Thy   love,    remembered,    doth   heaven's   light 

eclipse ; 
I  feel  thy  lingering  kisses  on  my  lips. 


PROSERPINE   TO  PLUTO  IN  HADES.     159 

I  languish  for  the  late  autumnal  showers, 
The  cool,  cool  plashing  of  the  autumn  rain, 

The  shimmering  hoar-frost  and  fast-fading  flow 
ers, 
That  give  me  back  to  thy  dark  realm  again : 

To  thee  I  '11  bring  Sicilia's  starry  skies 

And  all  the  heaven  of  summer  in  my  eyes. 

When  from  earth's  noontide  beauty  borne  away 

To  the  pale  prairies  of  that  under  world, 
A  mournful  flower  upon  thy  breast  I  lay 
Till   round   thy  heart  its    clinging   tendrils 

curled  — 

A  frighted  dove,  that  tamed  its  fluttering  pin 
ion 
To  the  dear  magic  of  thy  love's  dominion. 

For  thou  wert  grandly  beautiful  as  night, 
Stern  Orcus,  in  thy  realm  of  buried  kings ; 

And  thy  sad  crown  of  cypress  in  my  sight 
Fairer  than  all  the  bright  and  flowery  rings 

Of  wreathed  poppies  and  of  golden  corn 

By  Ceres  on  her  stately  temples  worn. 

I  sat  beside  thee  on  Hell's  dusky  throne, 
Nor  feared  the  awful  shadow  of  thy  fate  ; 

Content  to  share  the  burden  of  thy  crown, 
And  all  the  mournful  splendors  of  thy  state  ; 


l6o    PROSERPINE    TO  PLUTO  IN  HADES. 

Bending  my  flower-like  beauty  to  thy  will, 
Seeking  with  light  thy  lonely  dark  to  fill. 

Wondering,  I  think  how  thy  dear  love    hath 

bound  me 

In  a  new  life  that  half  forgets  the  old ; 
All  day  I  haunt  the  meadows  where  you  found 

me, 

Knee-deep  in  daffodils  of  dusky  gold, 
Or  sit  by  Cyane's  sad  fountain,  dreaming 
Of  the  red  lake  by  thy  proud  palace  gleaming. 

When,  in  her  car  by  winged  dragons  borne, 
Pale  Ceres  sought  me  through  the  shudder 
ing  night, 

With  angry  torches  and  fierce  eyes,  forlorn, 
Slaying  the  dark  that  screened  me  from  her 

sight, 

Like  a  reft  lioness  that  rends  the  air 
Of  midnight  with  her  perilous  despair, 

Jove,  pitying  the  great  passion  of  her  woe, 
Gave  back  thy  queen-bride  to  the  mother's 

grief  — 
To   Ceres   gave  —  through    summer's   golden 

glow 

And  all  the  crescent  months,  from  spear  to 
sheaf : 


PROSERPINE    TO  PLUTO  IN  HADES.     l6l 

Alas,  how  sadly  in  Sicilian  bovvers 

I  pass  this  lonely,  lingering  time  of  flowers  ! 

In  the  long  silence  of  the  languid  noons, 
When  all  the  panting  birds  are  faint  with 

heat, 
I  wander  listless  by  the  blue  lagoons 

To  hear  their  light  waves  rippling  at  my  feet 
Through  the  dead  calm,  and  count  the  linger 
ing  time 
By  the  slow  pulsing  of  their  silver  chime. 

I  languish  for  the  late  autumnal  showers, 

The  cool,  cool  plashing  of  the  autumn  rain, 
The    shimmering    hoar-frost   and    fast-fading 

flowers, 

That  give  me  back  to  thy  dark  realm  again  : 
I  have  no  native  land  from  thee  apart, 
And  my  high  heaven  of  heavens  is  in  thy  heart. 
n 


THE    TYPHON. 

"  Typhon,  dread  demon  from  the  realms  below, 
The  dark,  mysterious  cause  of  every  woe, 
The  racking  ague  and  the  fever  throe !  " 

WHEN  the  green  leaves  to  golden  bronze  were 

turning, 

And  earth  lay  parched   beneath  the    Octo 
ber  sun, 
A  sullen  fever  in  my  veins  was  burning, 

While  life  and  death  seemed  melting  into 
one. 

At  eventide  the  cheerful  embers  glowing 
Through  the  cool  chamber  turned  to  fires 

of  doom  ; 

In  the  white  draperies  o'er  the  windows  flow 
ing 

Lurked  sheeted  phantoms  from  the  nether 
gloom. 

Great,  gorgon  heads  and  stony  faces  only 
Looked  out  from    all    the   pictures   on  the 
wall ; 


THE    TYPHON.  163 

The   quaint  sequestered  room  grew  vast  and 

lonely 
As  the  wide  vaulted  arch  of  Vathek's  hall ; 

The  walls,  now  fading  into  endless  distance, 
Now  narrowing  round  me  to  a  low-browed 
cave, 

Where  in  a  living  death  without  resistance 
I  lay  as  in  the  hollow  of  a  grave. 

Strange  life  in    death !    that   left   my  soul  to 
wander 

Long  ages  in  a  dim  sepulchral  pile, 
The  legend  of  forgotten  lives  to  ponder 

On  footworn  marbles  of  the  moldering  aisle. 

My  vanished  years  were  there  —  a  long  suc 
cession 

Of  sultry  summers  severed  by  the  snows 
Of  endless  winters,  while  some  dark  obsession 

Forced  me  to  read  the  record  to  its  close. 

Day  followed  day  and  night  to  night  succeeded, 
And  still  the  powers  of   darkness   reigned 

supreme  ; 

A  smoldering  fire  the  pulse  of  life  impeded, 
And   all   my  past    seemed   one   long  fever 
dream. 


1 64  THE   TYPHON. 

Then  the  foul  Typhon  fled.    A  wondrous  glory 
Flooded  the  world  with  health's    returning 

tide, 

And  all  the  sorrows  of  life's  mystic  story 
Were    but   as    wandering    clouds    through 

moonlit  heavens  that  glide. 
1865. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

TO  MY  LITTLE  FRIENDS  AT  NEW  ROCHELLE. 

LET  fall  the  curtains,  drop  the  shades  ; 
Behind  the  hills  the  twilight  fades ; 
The  sullen  rain-drops,  heavily, 
In  the  dank,  drooping  hemlocks  lie ; 
The  fir-trees  in  the  rounding  park 
Loom  statelier  through  the  gathering  dark, 
And  reddening  in  the  starless  night 
The  tall  church  windows  blaze  with  light. 
The  north  wind  whistles  down  the  glades  ; 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  drop  the  shades, 
And,  while  the  fire-light's  glowing  gloom 
Casts  fitful  shadows  through  the  room, 
Gather  around  the  ruddy  blaze 
To  welcome  in  the  holidays. 

See  Haidee's  dark  brown  eyes  grow  bright 

As  diamonds  in  the  dancing  light, 

To  hear  the  merry  bells  that  ring 

In  the  tall  steeples,  — ding  dong  ding; 


1 66  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

While  Rena's  songs  sound  sweet  and  rare 

As  music  heard  in  mountain  air, 

And  Ethel,  with  cheeks  all  abloom, 

Goes  dancing,  dancing  round  the  room, 

Or  softly  lingers  at  my  knee 

To  watch  the  wondrous  Christmas  Tree. 

Sweet  Christmas  Eve  !     The  holidays 
May  pass,  the  firelight's  cheerful  blaze 
Die  out,  the  little  waltzing  feet 
To  other  mazy  measures  beat, 
And  other  Christmas  Trees  may  spread 
Their  fragrant  branches  o'er  my  head, 
And  fairy  fruit  for  us  may  fall 
In  many  a  distant  bower  and  hall, 
And  Santa  Claus  at  Christmas  tide 
May  down  the  roaring  chimneys  ride, 
And  chapel  bells  with  solemn  chime 
Ring  in  the  Christ-child's  holy  time, 
And  tell  to  all  the  wondering  Earth 
The  mystic  story  of  his  birth  ; 
But  memory  long  shall  fondly  dwell 
On  this  blithe  eve  at  New  Rochelle, 
And  fairer  deem  our  Christmas  Tree 
Than  all  that  have  been  or  may  be, 
And  keep  the  birthnight  it  embalms 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  heavenly  palms. 

December ;  1866. 


SANTA  GLAUS. 

A  HEALTH  to  good  old  Santa  Claus, 

And  to  his  reindeer  bold, 
Whose  hoofs  are  shod  with  eider-down, 

Whose  horns  are  tipped  with  gold. 

He  comes  from  utmost  fairy-land 

Across  the  wintry  snows  ; 
He  makes  the  fir-tree  and  the  spruce 

To  blossom  like  the  rose. 

Over  the  quaint  old  gables, 

Over  the  windy  ridge, 
By  turret  wall  and  chimney  tall, 

He  guides  his  fairy  sledge  ; 

Along  the  sleeping  house-tops 

Its  silver  runners  trend, 
All  loaded  down  with  wonder-books 

And  tales  without  an  end. 


168  SANTA    CLAUS. 

He  steals  upon  the  slumbers 

Of  little  rose-lipped  girls, 
And  lays  his  waxen  dollies  down 

Beside  their  golden  curls. 

He  scatters  blessings  on  his  way 

And  sugar-coated  plums. 
He  robs  the  sluggard  of  his  rest, 

With  trumpets,  guns,  and  drums. 

Small  feet,  before  the  dawn  of  day, 

Are  marching  to  and  fro, 
Drums  beat  to  arms  through  all  the  house, 

And  penny  trumpets  blow. 

A  health  to  brave  old  Santa  Clans, 

And  to  his  reindeer  bold, 
Whose  hoofs  are  shod  with  eider-down, 

Whose  horns  are  tipped  with  gold. 

He  tells  us  of  the  yule-log 

That  blazed  in  Saxon  halls, 
Of  the  marchpane  and  the  mistletoe, 

And  the  minstrels'  merry  calls  ; 

Of  Christmas  candles  burning  bright 
In  ages  long  ago  ; 


SANTA    CLAUS.  169 

Those  long  dark  ages  when  the  world 
Turned  round  so  very  slow. 

He  comes  from  utmost  fairy-land 

Across  the  wintry  snows  ; 
He  makes  the  fir-tree  and  the  spruce 

To  blossom  like  the  rose. 

He  lingers  till  the  Christmas  bells, 

With  sweet  and  solemn  chime, 
Come  sounding  o'er  the  centuries 

Through  years  of  war  and  crime. 

Ring  out,  ring  out,  sweet  Christmas  bells  ! 

Ring  loud  and  silver  clear  ! 
Ring  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  man, 

Till  all  the  world  shall  hear ! 
December,  1867. 


OUR    LAST   WALK. 

TO    R.    B.    B. 

THE  October  day  was  dying,  the  dark  sea 
Flushed  crimson  at  the  coming  of  the  sun ; 

The  ripened  year  lay  drowsing  on  the  lea, 
Like  a  tired  reaper  when  his  task  is  done. 

Slowly  we  loitered  o'er  the  twilight  wold, 
Through  velvet  sheep-walks,  and  where  reedy 

plumes 

And  nodding  fern  tufts,  tipt  with  tawny  gold, 
Fringe  the  dank  borders  where  the  gentian 
blooms. 

The  very  crickets  seemed  to  drone  and  dream, 
As  if  they  felt  the  sweet  mysterious  charm 

Of    the    hushed    evening,    and   attuned    their 

theme 
To  its  low  cadences  of  slumberous  calm. 


OUR  LAST  WALK.  171 

With  scarlet  hips  and  sprays  of  purpling  leaves 
The  brier-rose  in  the  bosky  thickets  burned, 

The  maples  flamed  beneath  the  forest  eaves, 
And  their   cold  gloom  to  sudden    splendor 
turned. 

The  level  sunbeams  glinted  through  the  trees 
And  flecked  with  arrowy  light  their  verdant 

mold, 
And  bound  red  baldricks  round  their  gnarled 

knees, 

And  fringed  the  tufted  knolls  with  raveled 
gold. 

Our  woodland  path  was  dim  with  tender  dreams 
Of  the  past  summer,  and  a  pensive  gloom, 

Lit  by  the  rosy  sunset's  dying  gleams, 

Filled  the  long  arches  of  our  sylvan  room : 

Sweet  haunting  memories  of  our  golden  noons, 
Our  twilight  wanderings  by  the  lonely  shore, 

Our  August  mornings,  our  September  noons, 
Our  long,  sweet,  summer  days  that  are  no 
more. 

We  sat  together  by  the  sunset  sea, 

Screened  from  its  solemn  splendors  by  a  wall 


1?2  OUR  LAST  WALK. 

Of  beech  and  oak  and  many  a  tangled  tree 
Of  the  witch-elms  that  over-roofed  our  hall. 

It  was  your  birthnight,  and  close-clasped  in 

mine 
I  held  your  hand,  and  blessed  the  imperial 

hour 

That  sheathed  your  spirit  in  a  mortal  shrine, 
And   gave  to   bloom  on   earth  a   thornless 
flower. 


OUR   HAUNTED   ROOM. 

TO    E.    N.    G. 

"Oh  life!  infinite  life!  the  beautiful  gates  unfold! 

The  shadowless  light  that  knows  no  night 
Breaks  over  the  city  of  gold ! 

I  rise  on  invisible  pinions. 
I  breathe  an  ineffable  breath ! 
Oh,  life !  rivers  of  life !  for  me  there  is  no  more  death ! " 

[Last  lines  of  Elizabeth  N.  Gladding,  who  died  of  malarial  fever, 
while  teaching  thefreedmen  at  St.  Helena  Island,  S.  C.,  July,  1867.] 

HERE,  where  thy  presence,  like  a  rare, 
Sweet  perfume,  lingers  everywhere, 
Elusive  shadows  haunt  the  air. 

The  dimly-pictured  walls  expand 

To  mountain  sceneries,  wild  and  grand, 

Where  war-worn  castles  proudly  stand,  — 

Bastions  and  barbacans  that  gleam 
In  the  old  mirror's  crystal  stream, 
Like  far-off  palaces  of  dream. 


4  OUR  HAUNTED  ROOM. 

A  censer,  curiously  enwrought, 
That  burned  in  some  barbaric  court, 
Drowsed  in  the  Orient's  dusky  thought, 

On  the  long  centuries  seems  to  brood, 
When  in  Mongolian  halls  it  stood, 
Breathing  of  myrrh  and  sandal  wood. 

From  an  amphora,  quaint  and  tall, 
Funereal  mosses  float  and  fall, 
And  waver  down  the  chamber  wall, 

Dark  southern  mosses  that  have  hung 
The  wild  sea-island  woods  among, 
And  o'er  their  deep  morasses  swung. 

The  hands  that  twined  with  flexile  grace 
Their  garlands  round  my  flower-lipped  vase, 
Shrouding  the  corbel's  sculptured  face, 

Fair-folded  in  a  southern  clime, 
Absolved  from  all  the  toils  of  time, 
Await  the  eternal  morning's  prime  : 

Fair-folded  by  the  Atlantic  wave, 
'Mid  the  dark  race  she  died  to  save, 
Where  homeless  sea-winds  haunt  her  grave. 


OUR  HAUNTED  ROOM. 

But  when  the  sunset  fires  are  low, 
And  twilight  fancies  come  and  go, 
And  mystic  winds  of  memory  blow,  — 

When  the  heart  feels  its  courage  fail, 
Its  visioned  hopes  without  avail, 
Untouched,  unfound  its  Holy  Grail,  — 

Some  solemn  rapture,  like  a  strain 
Of  music's  beautiful  disdain, 
Uplifts  beyond  all  mortal  pain  : 

A  sudden  splendor  rifts  the  gloom,  — 
A  light  that  seems  to  bud  and  bloom 
From  out  the  shadows  of  the  room  : 

A  silken  stir  anear  the  door, 

Like  rose-leaves  rippling  o'er  the  floor, 

And  lo  !  glad-smiling,  as  of  yore, 

Close  at  my  side  I  see  thee  stand 
In  shining  garments,  ghostly  grand, 
A  palm-branch  budding  in  thy  hand, 

And,  sweet  as  morning's  music  breath 

Across  the  hills  of  Nazareth, 

A  low  voice  murmurs,  "  No  more  death ! 

1870. 


MEMORIAL   HYMN. 

WRITTEN    FOR   THE  DEDICATION  OF   THE  RHODE 
ISLAND  SOLDIERS'  AND  SAILORS'  MONUMENT. 

RAISE  the  proud  pillar  of  granite  on  high, 
Graced  with  all  honors   that  love  can   im 
part; 

Lift  its  fair  sculptures  against  the  blue  sky, 
Blazoned  and  crowned  with  the  trophies  of 

art,— 
Crowned  with  the  triumphs  of  genius  and 

art! 
Long  may  its  white  column  soar   to  the 

sky, 

Like  a  lone  lily  that  perfumes  the  mart, 
Lifting  its  coronal  beauty  on  high. 

Sons  of  Rhode  Island,  your  record  shall  stand 
Graven  on  tablets  of  granite  and  bronze  ; 

Soldiers  and  sailors,  beloved  of  our  land, 
Darlings  and  heroes,  our  brothers  and  sons,  — 


MEMORIAL  HYMN.  1 77 

Gray-bearded  heroes  and  beautiful  sons  ! 
Soldiers  and  sailors,  the  flower  of  our  land, 

Deep  as  on  tablets  of  granite  and  bronze, 
Graved  on  our  hearts  shall  your  bright  rec 
ord  stand. 

Swell    the  loud   psalm,  let   the  war   trumpets 

sound  ; 

Fling  the  old  flag  to  the  wild  autumn  blast ; 
High  in  Valhalla  our  comrades  are  crowned  ; 
There  may  we  meet  when  life's  conflicts  are 

past,  - 

Meet  in  the  great  Hall  of  Heroes  at  last ! 
High     in    Valhalla     our    comrades     are 

crowned. 
Swell  with  Hosannas  the  wild  autumn 

blast  ! 
Let  the  full  chorus  of  voices  resound  ! 

September  16,  1871. 

12 


A   BUNCH   OF   GRAPES. 

PAINTED    BY    E.    C.    LEAVITT. 

"  Such  as  lurked  behind  the  trees 
In  gardens  of  Hesperides." 

ON  a  sultry  night  in  June, 
In  the  trances  of  the  moon, 
Came  a  sudden  thunder-squall 
Crashing  through  the  lindens  tall ; 
Every  grape-vine  was  blown  down, 
Every  rose-tree  lost  its  crown, 
Jagged  lightning,  sheeted  rain, 
Dashed  athwart  the  window  pane. 

Then  a  gust  swept  through  the  hall, 
A  sudden  splendor  rent  the  pall 
Of  darkness  ;  —  by  its  dazzling  glare 
I  saw  a  stranger  standing  there, 
With  beaded  raindrops  in  his  hair. 
Over  eyes  of  dusky  sheen 
Vine-wreaths  wove  a  leafy  screen, 


A   BUNCH  OF  GKAPES.  179 

Such  as  crowns  the  marble  brow 
Of  Bacchus  in  the  busts  we  know ; 
Such,  at  least,  I  seemed  to  see,  — 
Perchance  the  lightning  blinded  me. 

Then  a  hand  of  plastic  power, 
Cool  and  dripping  with  the  shower, 
Dropped  within  my  hand  a  bunch 
Of  grapelets,  fit  for  Juno's  lunch  ; 
Grapes  by  Orient  sunbeams  kissed 
Into  globes  of  amethyst ; 
Such  as  haughty  Guinevere 
Flung  into  the  haunted  mere  ; 
Jewels  for  some  queenly  head, 
In  the  purple  born  and  bred  ; 
Every  dark  globe  veined  with  fire, 

Like  the  brown  cheek  of  a  gypsy  ; 
Lucent  drops  of  love  and  ire, 

Such  as  made  the  Maenads  tipsy ; 
Every  purple  bead  a  gem 
For  Alraschid's  diadem  ; 
Each  a  miracle  of  art, 
Fit  to  charm  a  poet's  heart. 

Dazed  I  stood,  without  a  word, 
And  the  silence  was  unstirred 


ISO  A   BUNCH  OF  GRAPES. 

Save  by  storm  winds  sweeping  o'er  us, 
And  the  thunder's  hollow  chorus, 
As  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 
In  the  wild  and  lonesome  night. 

Was  it  Bacchus  ?     Who  can  tell  ? 
If  not  he,  't  was  —  E.  C.  L. 

1872. 


THE  OLD  MIRROR. 

OFT  I  see  at  twilight, 
In  the  hollow  gloom 

Of  the  dim  old  mirror, 
Phantasmal  faces  loom : 

Noble  antique  faces, 
Sad  as  with  the  weight 

Of  some  ancient  sorrow, 
Some  ancestral  fate : 

Little  rose-lipped  faces, 
Locks  of  golden  shine, 

Laughing  eyes  of  childhood 
Looking  into  mine : 

Sweet  auroral  faces, 

Like  the  morning's  bloom  ; 
Ah,  how  long  and  long  ago 

Shrouded  for  the  tomb ! 


1 82  THE  OLD  MIRROR. 

In  a  bridal  chamber 
Once  the  mirror  hung ; 

Draperies  of  Indian  looms 
Over  it  were  flung. 

From  its  gilded  sconces, 
Fretted  now  with  mold, 

Waxen  tapers  glimmered 
On  carcanets  of  gold. 

Perfumes  of  the  summer  night 
Were  through  the  lattice  blown, 

Scents  of  brier  roses 

And  meadows  newly  mown. 

The  mirror  then  looked  eastward 
And  caught  the  morning  bloom, 

And  flooded  with  its  rosy  gold 
The  dreamlight  of  the  room. 

To-night  't  is  looking  westward 
Toward  the  sunset  wall ; 

The  wintry  day  is  waning, 
The  dead  leaves  drift  and  fall. 

All  about  the  hearth-stone 
The  whitening  ashes  blow, 


THE   OLD  MIRROR.  183 

The  wind  is  wailing  an  old  song 
Heard  long  and  long  ago. 

Like  the  dead  leaves  drifting 

Through  the  wintry  air, 
Like  white  ashes  sifting 

O'er  the  hearth-stone  bare, 

Sad  ancestral  faces, 

Wan  as  moon-lit  snow, 
Haunt  the  dim  old  mirror 

That  knew  them  long  ago. 

1875- 


THE  NIGHT  BLOOMING  CEREUS. 

A   NOCTURNE,    FOR   M.   A. 

A  JULY  evening,  damp  and  cold  ; 

Over  the  dim  horizon  wall 
Low  clouds  their  heavy  draperies  rolled, 

Till  darkness  gathered  like  a  pall 
Around  me,  and  the  shadowy  room 
Grew  slumberous  with  its  weight  of  gloom. 

Heard  I  a  step  ?  —  or  had  I  dreamed  ? 
Strange    perfume    through    the    chamber 

streamed, 

A  phantom  flower  was  in  my  hand 
From  some  far  off  enchanted  land. 
Wondering,  I  placed  it  where  a  low 
Lamp  gleamed,  like  moonlight  over  snow. 
The  winds  were  hushed,  the  night  was  still, 
The  very  silence  seemed  to  thrill 
With  that  strange  effluence. 


THE  NIGHT  BLOOMING   CEREUS.         185 

Filled  with  awe, 
In  rapt  and  wondering  mood  I  saw 

The  mystic  lily,  pure  and  cold, 
Whose  beauty  never  knew  the  sun, 

Its  vestal  garniture  unfold, 
Till  slowly,  slowly,  one  by  one, 

Its  lucent  petals  fall  apart, 

Unveiling  all  its  virgin  heart ! 
From  what  far  heights  of  glory  came 
That  coronal  of  silver  flame  ? 
From  what  deep  fount  of  wonder  welled 
The  holy  gold  its  chalice  held  ? 

Strange  marvel  of  the  summer  night, 
Veiled  in  an  aureole  of  light, 
To  vanish  ere  the  morning  hour ! 
Gazing  upon  thy  magic  flower, 

With  such  superfluous  beauty  fraught,  — 
Owning  the  presence  of  a  power 

Beyond  the  reaches  of  our  thought,  — 
Almost  the  gazer  fears  to  guess 
The  mystery  of  thy  loveliness. 
1877. 


"A   PAT   OF   BUTTER." 

TO    EMILIA. 

YELLOW  as  the  cups  of  gold, 
Peering  through  the  springtime  mold, 
Sweeter  than  a  breath  of  clover 
Blowing  the  June  meadows  over.  — 
Butter,  such  as  Goethe  said 
Werter  saw  his  Charlotte  spread 
For  her  sisters  and  her  brothers, 
And,  perhaps,  for  a  few  others, 
Till  it  turned  her  lover's  head  ; 
Such  as  sweet  Red  Riding  Hood, 
By  that  wicked  wolf  pursued, 
Through  the  enchanted  forest  bore 
To  her  grandam's  fatal  door. 
'T  is  the  ashen  time  of  Lent. 
Well,  I  know  some  fairy  sent 
This,  for  my  soul's  nourishment : 
Well  I  know  a  fairy  churned 
The  creamy  lactage  till  it  turned 


"A  PAT  OF  BUTTER."  l8/ 

To  golden  gobbets  ;  that  a  dame 

Of  gracious  presence,  known  to  fame 

By  her  sweet  baptismal  name 

Of  Emilia  (Emily), 

Pressed  it  into  shape  for  me 

With  her  jeweled  fingers. 

Say  you : 

"  This  is  all  a  dream  ? "  I  pray  you, 
Then,  in  sober  truth  to  tell  me 
Has  your  huckster  some  to  sell  me  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  I  implore, 
What 's  his  number  ?     Where 's  his  store  ? 
1877. 


EPIG^A. 

"  Pink  with  promises  of  spring." 

"  I  WANDERED  lonely  as  a  cloud  " 

Along  the  busy,  bustling  street, 
Unmindful  of  the  alien  crowd 

That  passed  me  by  with  hurrying  feet : 
I  knew  not  't  was  an  April  day, 
So  chill  the  winds  that  blew  this  way. 

When,  at  a  crossing  of  the  flags 

A  wanderer  from  the  woods  I  met, 
With  willow  wands  and  alder  tags 
And  tufts  of  pink  arbutus,  wet 
With  April  dews  and  showers,  that  fell 
Around  them  in  some  far-off  dell, 
And  redolent  of  the  rich  loam 

That  fed  them  in  their  forest  home 

Strange  perfume,  in  whose  effluence  broods 

The  wild,  sweet  spirit  of  the  woods 

Bringing  remembrance  of  old  days, 


EPIG^ZA.  189 

Of  spring-time  wanderings  through  a  maze 
Of  mossy,  winding,  woodland  ways, 
Or,  o'er  some  brown  hill's  hoary  side 
Where  the  shy  May-flower  loves  to  hide. 

Then,  with  a  glinting  of  surprise 
In  the  cool  shadow  of  his  eyes, 
The  woodman  touched  me  with  his  wand 
And  turned  the  street  to  Fairy -land  ! 
"  Well  met,"  he  cried  ;  "  I  have  a  few 
Tufts  of  arbutus.     These 

April,  1876. 


"SCIENCE." 

"  The  words  '  vital  force,' '  instinct,' '  soul,'  are  only  expressions  of  our 
ignorance."  —  BUCHNER. 

WHILE  the  dull  Fates  sit  nodding  at  their  loom, 

Benumbed  and  drowsy  with  its  ceaseless  boom, 

I  hear,  as  in  a  dream,  the  monody 

Of  life's  tumultuous,  ever-ebbing  sea ; 

The  iron  tramp  of  armies  hurrying  by 

Forever  and  forever  but  to  die ; 

The  tragedies  of  time,  the  dreary  years, 

The  frantic  carnival  of  hopes*  and  fears, 

The   wild    waltz-music    wailing    through    the 

gloom, 

The  slow  death-agonies,  the  yawning  tomb, 
The  loved  ones  lost  forever  to  our  sight, 
In  the  wide  waste  of  chaos  and  old  night ; 
Earth's  long,  long   dream  of   martyrdom  and 

pain  ; 

No  God  in  heaven  to  rend  the  welded  chain 
Of  endless  evolution  ! 


"SCIENCE."  191 

Is  this  all? 

And  mole-eyed  "  Science,"  gloating  over  bones, 
The  skulls  of  monkeys  and  the  Age  of  Stones, 
Blinks  at  the  golden  lamps  that  light  the  hall 
Of  dusty  death,  and  answers:  "  It  is  all." 
1877. 


TO  THE  ANGEL  OF  DEATH. 

THOU  ancient  Mystery  !  thy  solemn  night,  — 
Pierced  by  attempered  rays  from  that  far 

realm 

That  lies  beyond,  dark  with  excess  of  light,  - 
No  more  the  shuddering  spirit  shall   o'er- 
whelm. 

No  more  thy  charnel  glooms  the  soul  appall, 

Pale  Azrael !  awful  eidolon  of  Death  !  - 
The  dawn-light  breaks  athwart  thy  glimmering 

hall, 

And   thy  dank  vapors    own  the  morning's 
breath. 

Too  long  the  terror  of  the  dread  unknown 
Hath  the  wrung  heart  with  hopeless  anguish 

riven ; 

The  blasting  splendors  of  the  fiery  throne 
"Burning      within     the     inmost     veil     of 
Heaven  "  — 


TO    THE  ANGEL   OF  DEATH.  193 

The  gloom  of  that  great  glory,  which  of  old 
Haunted  the  vision  of  the  prophet's  dream, 

When  the  archangel  of  the  Lord  foretold 
The  day  of  doom,  by  dark  Hiddekel's  stream. 

In  vain,  through  lingering  years,  I  turned  the 
page 

Rich  with  these  sacred  records  of  the  past, 
Hope  languished,  and  no  legend  could  assuage 

The  rayless  gloom  thy  awful  shadow  cast. 

In  dread  apocalypse,  I  saw  thee  borne 

On    the    pale    steed,    triumphant    o'er  the 

doomed, 

Till  the  rent  Heavens  like  a  scroll  were  torn, 
And    hollow    earth    her   hundred    isles    en 
tombed. 

In  vain  I  questioned  the  cold  stars,  and  kept 
Lone  vigils  by  the  grave  of  buried  love  ; 

No  angel  wing  athwart  the  darkness  swept, 
No  voice  vouchsafed  my  sorrow  to  reprove. 

Was  it  the  weight  of  that  remorseless  woe, 
The  lonely  anguish  of  that  long  despair,  — 

That  made  thy  marble  lips  at  length  forego 
Their  silence  at  my  soul's  unceasing  prayer  ? 
13 


IQ4  TO    THE  ANGEL   OF  DEATH. 

Henceforth,  the  sorrowing  heart  its  pulse  shall 
still 

To  solemn  cadences  of  sweet  repose, 
Content  life's  mystic  passion  to  fulfill 

In  the  great  calm  that  from  thy  promise  flows. 

Welcome  as  the  white  feet  of  those  who  bring 
Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  unto  the  world, 

Shall  fall  the  shadow  of  thy  silver  wing 
Over  the  weary  couch  of  woe  unfurled. 

A  heavenly  halo  kindles  round  thy  brow ; 

Beyond  the  palms  of  Eden  softly  wave ; 
Bright  messengers  athwart  the  empyrean  go, 

And  love   to   love   makes   answer  o'er   the 
grave. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

AFTER  long  years  I  raised  the  folds  concealing 
That  face,  magnetic  as  the  morning's  beam  : 
While  slumbering  memory  thrilled  at  its  reveal 
ing, 

Like   Memnon  wakening  from   his   marble 
dream, 

Again  I  saw  the  brow's  translucent  pallor, 
The  dark  hair  floating  o'er  it  like  a  plume ; 

The  sweet,  imperious  mouth,  whose  haughty 

valor 
Defied  all  portents  of  impending  doom. 

Eyes   planet   calm,   with   something    in   their 

vision 
That  seemed  not  of  earth's  mortal  mixture 

born; 

Strange  mythic  faiths  and  fantasies  Elysian, 
And  far,  sweet  dreams  of  "fairy  lands  for 
lorn." 


196  THE  PORTRAIT. 

Unfathomable  eyes  that  held  the  sorrow 
Of  vanished  ages  in  their  shadowy  deeps, 

Lit  by  that  prescience  of  a  heavenly  morrow 
Which  in  high   hearts  the   immortal  spirit 
keeps. 

Oft  has  that  pale,  poetic  presence  haunted 
My  lonely  musings  at  the  twilight  hour, 

Transforming  the  dull  earth-life  it  enchanted, 
With   marvel   and   with    mystery   and   with 
power. 

Oft  have  I  heard  the  sullen  sea-wind  moaning 
Its  dirge-like  requiems  on  the  lonely  shore, 

Or  listening  to  the  Autumn  woods  intoning 
The  wild,  sweet  legend  of  the  lost  Lenore  ; 

Oft  in  some  ashen  evening  of  October, 

Have    stood  entranced  beside   a  moldering 
tomb 

Hard  by  that  visionary  Lake  of  Auber, 

Where  sleeps  the  shrouded  form  of  Ulalume  ; 

Oft  in  chill,  star-lit  nights  have  heard  the  chim 
ing 

Of  far-off  mellow  bells  on  the  keen  air, 
And  felt  their  molten-golden  music  timing 

To  the  heart's  pulses,  answering  unaware. 


THE  PORTRAIT.  197 

Sweet,  mournful  eyes,  long  closed  upon  earth's 

sorrow 

Sleep  restfully  after  life's  fevered  dream ! 
Sleep,  wayward  heart !  till  on  some  cool,  bright 

morrow, 

Thy  soul,  refreshed,  shall  bathe  in  morning's 
beam. 

Though  cloud  and  sorrow  rest  upon  thy  story, 
And  rude  hands  lift  the  drapery  of  thy  pall, 

Time,  as  a  birthright,  shall  restore  the  glory, 
And  Heaven  rekindle  all  the  stars  that  fall. 
1870. 


THE  VENUS  OF  MILO. 

"  When  I  entered  for  the  last  time  that  magnificent  hall  of  the  Louvre, 
where  stands  on  her  pedestal  the  ever-blessed  goddess  of  beauty,  our  be 
loved  Lady  of  Milo,  the  diva  looked  on  me  with  a  face  of  mournful  and 
tender  compassion." —  HEINRICH  HEINE. 

GODDESS  of  dreams,  mother  of  love  and  sorrow, 
Such  sorrow  as  from  love's  fair  promise  flows, 
Such  love  as  from  love's  martyrdoms  doth  bor 
row 

That  conquering   calm  which    only  sorrow 
knows !  — 

Venus,  Madonna  !  so  serene  and  tender, 
In  thy  calm  after-bloom  of  life  and  love, 

More  fair  than  when  of  old  thy  sea-born  splen 
dor 
Surprised  the  senses  of  Olympian  Jove  !  — 

Not  these  the  lips,  that  kindling  into  kisses, 
Poured   subtile  heats   through  Aden's   lan 
guid  frame, 

Rained  on  his  sullen  lips  their  warm  caresses, 
Thrilled  to  his  heart  and  turned  its  frost  to 
flame. 


THE    VENUS  OF  MILO.  199 

Thy  soul  transcending  passion's  wild  illusion, 

Its  fantasy  and  fever  and  unrest, 
Broods  tenderly  in  thought's  devout  seclusion, 

O'er  some  lost  love-dream  lingering  in  thy 
breast. 

Thy  face  seems  touched  with  pity  for  the  an 
guish 

Of  earth's  disconsolate  and  lonely  hearts  ; 
For  all  the  lorn  and  loveless  lives  that  languish 

In  solitary  homes  and  sordid  marts  : 

With  pity  for  the  faithlessness  and  feigning, 
The  vain  repentance  and  the  long  regret, 

The  perfumed  lamps  in  lonely  chambers  wan 
ing, 
The  untouched  fruits  on  golden  salvers  set : 

With  pity  for  the  patient  watchers  yearning 
Through   glimmering  casements  over  mid 
night  moors, 

Thrilled  by  the  echo  of  far  feet  returning 
Through  the  blank  darkness  of  the  empty 
doors : 

With  sorrow  for  the  coy,  sweet  buds  that  cher 
ish 
In  virgin  pride  love's  luxury  of  gloom, 


200  THE    VENUS  OF  MILO. 

And  in  their  fair  unfolded  beauty  perish, 

Fading  like  flowers   that  knew  not  how  to 
bloom : 

With  sorrow  for  the  over-blown  pale  roses 
That  yield  their  fragrance  to  the  wandering 
air; 

For  all  the  penalties  that  life  imposes 

On  passion's  dream,  on  love's  divine  despair. 

1868. 


IN   MEMORIAM. 

How  many  Aprils  have  I  roamed  beside  thee 
O'er    the   brown   hills  where   now  alone   I 

tread  ? 
And  though  far  realms  of  wonder  now  divide 

thee 

From  our   dim  world,  I  cannot  deem  thee 
dead. 

I  held  thee  in  my  arms  while  life  was  failing,  — 
Close  in  my  arms  and  watched  thy  fluttering 
breath, 

Till  the  red  sunset  in  the  west  was  paling 
And  twilight  veiled  the  awful  calm  of  death. 

In  that  white  calm  I  saw  then  and  forever 
The  grandeur  of  thy  spirit  and  its  power ; 

E'en  as  its  mortal  vestment  seemed  to  sever, 
I  saw  the  immortal  bursting  into  flower. 

That  soul,  so  lofty  in  its  isolation ; 

So  strong  in  weakness,  resolute  in  pain ; 


202  IN  MEMORIAM. 

So  self-reliant  in  its  reprobation 

Of  servile  arts  and  custom's  iron  reign ; 

Mid  alien    crowds   alone,  with  none  to  know 

thee, 

With  nothing  left  behind  thee  to  regret, 
Save  one  sad  heart  that  love's  sweet  debt  doth 

owe  thee, 
One  lonely  heart  that  never  can  forget 

April,  1878. 


SONNET.  203 


f         MY  FLOWERS. 

SWEET  buds  and  berries  gathered,  far  and  wide, 

In  haunted  glens  or  wild  sequestered  ways  ; 
By  sun  or  starlight,  —  in  the  purple  pride, 

Of  Summer,  or  in  Autumn's  golden  haze  ;  — 
Long  have  I  held  ye,  clasped  within  my  hands, 

Wooing  your  mystic  odors  to  restore 
The  sweet  aroma  of  those  flowery  lands  ;  — 

The  perfume  of  the  days  that  are  no  more : 
Sad  Autumn   leaves,  touched  with  the  fatal 
glow 

Kindling  athwart  the  forest's  silent  gloom, 
Farewell !  I  fling  ye  on  the  way-side  now, 

Where  heedless  feet  may  trample  on  your 

bloom ; 
For,  through  the  silence  and  the  o'ershadow- 

ing  calm, 
Floats  the  far  perfume  of  the  Eden  palm. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE   GARDEN   MINSTER. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH   OF    VICTOR   HUGO. 

How  seems  this   garden,  with  its   depths   of 

shade 
And   verdurous,   vaulted    aisles,   for  worship 

made; 

Where  every  blossom  bows  its  .head  in  prayer, 
Or  swings  its  censer  on  the  silent  air ; 
Where  the  slow  footsteps  of  the  Summer  Hours 
From  dawn  till  dusk  descend  on  opening  flow 
ers, 
And,  as   they  pass,  with  light   and   shade  by 

turns, 

Fill  the  cool  hollows  of  the  marble  urns. 
A  holy  rapture  thrills  me  while  I  gaze 
Up  the  blue  heavens  through  the  o'ershadow- 

ing  maze ; 

Or  sit  long  hours  in  sweet  monastic  dreams, 
Where  o'er  its  rocky  bed  the  river  streams, 
In  the  long  grotto,  dusky,  cool  and  dim, 
Where  ivies  cluster  round  the  fountain's  brim. 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  HUGO. 

LITTLE  darlings,  return  to  my  desolate  room  ! 
Since    I    drove    you   away,    it   is    mantled   in 

gloom ;  — 
Since  I  drove  you  away,  with  rude,  menacing 

words  ;  — 
What  harm  had  you  done  me,  you  dear  little 

birds  ? 
Little   rosy-lipped   bandits  ;  —  what   Japanese 

vase 
Did  you  dash  into  fragments  ?  —  What  picture 

deface  ? 

Ah,  none  :  you  but  stopped  in  my  study  a  min 
ute, 

To  plunder  my  desk  of  some  papers  within  it  — 
Some  manuscript  verses  devoted  to  Fame ; 
Which  you  threw  in  the  fire,  and  fanned  to  a 

flame ; 

To  see,  as  you  said,  how  the  wandering  sparks 
Ran  over  the  paper  like  lamp-lighted  barques, 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE   CHILDREN. 

Or  gleamed,  as  from  window  to  window  at  night, 
One  sees  in  the  houses  a  vanishing  light. 
Then  muttering  vengeance,  in  menacing  tone, 
I  shouted,  "  Begone,  imps,  and  leave  me  alone  ! 
You  have  burnt  up  my  verses,  entitled  'To 

Fame : ' 
I  shall  die,  and  the  world  never  hear  of  my 


Great  loss  then,  indeed  !  and  great  cause  for 

dismay,  — 

A  strophe,  ill-born  in  the  noise  of  your  play ! 
Great  Bobadil  verses  that  puffed  as  they  went, 
And  swaggered  their   impotent   meanings  to 

vent ; 

And  long  Alexandrines,  entangling  their  feet 
Like  a  pack  of  rude  school-boys,  let  loose  in 

the  street. 

You  did  but  redeem  from  a  fate  more  obscure 
The  rhyme   that   some  newspaper  waited   to 

lure 
To  that  cavernous  cell,  called  the  poet's  own 

nook, 

Where  no  reader  of  newspapers  pauses  to  look. 
For  this  have  I  raved !     Ah,  I  blush  to  recall 
How  I  sat,  with  my  chair  leaning  back  to  the 

wall, 


2IO          THE  ROUT  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 

Still  muttering  vengeance,  in  menacing  tone, 
And  repeating    "  Begone,  imps,  and  leave  me 
alone ! " 

Alone !  fine  result,  and  great  triumph  !  alone ! 
Forgotten  —  forlorn,  like  a  toad  in  a  stone  ! 
And  here  have  you  left  me,  —  my  eye  on  the 

door, 
Grave,  haughty,  severe,  —  but  you  mind  me  no 

more  ; 
For  without  you  have  found  all  you  sought  to 

obtain,  — 
All  the  freedom  that  here  you  had  sighed  for 

in  vain,  — 
The  fresh  air,  the  streamlet  that  runs  through 

the  grass, 
Where  you  fling  in  sweet  blossoms  and  leaves 

as  you  pass ; 

The  breezes,  the  flowers,  the  perfumes  divine,  — 
Ah,    this    poem   of    God    is    far   better   than 

mine ! 

You  may  pluck  out  the  leaves  of  his  book  with 
out  fear, 

Nor  tremble  the  voice  of  the  tyrant  to  hear  :  — 
His  roses  and  pinks  you  may  rifle  all  day, 
Nor  regret  the  dull  room  whence  I  drove  you 

away. 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE   CHILDREN.         211 

As  for  me,  all  the  joy  of  my  day  has  departed  ; 
I  sit  in  my  chair  —  half  asleep,  heavy  hearted, 
While  old  Doctor  Ennui,  a  Londoner,  born 
Of  fogs  and  the  Thames  on  a  December  morn, 
Who  waited  to  enter  till  you  had  gone  out, 
Has  moped  in  my  study  all  day  in  a  pout, 
And,   usurping  your  corner,  sits  grouty  and 

grim, 
He  gaping  at  me,  and  I  gaping  at  him. 

The  pages  I  turned  with  such  zeal  to  explore, 
The  books  and  the  manuscripts  please  me  no 

more  : 
I  miss,  o'er  my  shoulder,  the  sweet,  peering 

face, 

I  miss  the  small  finger  to  point  out  the  place, 
The  nudge  of  the  elbow,  the  sly  little  kiss, 
The   brow  full   of    candor,   that   always   said 

"Yes," 
The   great   eyes  of  wonder,   the  frolicksome 

screams, 
The  sweet  humming  voices  that  lapt  me  in 

dreams. 

Return  little  birds  ! — since  I  drove  you  away 
I  have  lost  all  the  sunshine  and  bloom  of  my 
day. 


212          THE  ROUT  OF  THE   CHILDREN. 

Take  my  teacups,  enameled   with  butterflies' 

wings,  — 
All   my   Dresden    and    Sevres    and    beautiful 

things  :  — 
You  may  twirl  the  round  globe,  the  big  map 

may  unroll, 
And  sketch  out  new  countries  with  crayon  and 

coal. 

My  pictures  and  statues  are  waiting  for  you,  — 
My  vases  of  jasper  and  bright  or-molu  : 
Of  my  corals  and  shells  you  may  gather  your 

fill, 
And  my  malachite  tables  may  mount  at  your 

will. 

Your  whooping  and  hiding,  —  to  all  I  agree  ; 
Your  trooping  and  training  are  music  to  me. 
Like  heroes,  returned  from  some  great  battle 

ground, 
You  may  drag  my  old  armchair  in  triumph 

around  : 

My  great  painted  Bible  may  turn  o'er  and  o'er,  — 
That  book  you  ne'er  touched  but  with  terror 

before,  — 

Where  you  see  on  the  page,  in  fine  colors  dis 
played, 
Dieu  le ptre,  in  an  emperor's  habit  arrayed ! 


THE  ROUT  OF  THE   CHILDREN.         213 

Then  return,  little  doves  !  to  my  desolate  room  ; 
Since    I    drove   you    away,   it   is    mantled   in 

gloom  ;  — 
Oh,  return !  you  may  ransack  and   rifle   and 

reign, 
So  you  will  but  forgive  me,  and  love  me  again. 


THE   LOST   CHURCH. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

IN  yonder  dim  and  pathless  wood 

Strange  sounds  are  heard  at  twilight  hour, 
And  peals  of  solemn  music  swell, 

As  from  some  minster's  lofty  tower. 
From  age  to  age  those  sounds  are  heard, 

Borne  on  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour  ; 
From  age  to  age,  no  foot  hath  found 

A  pathway  to  the  minster's  tower. 

Late,  wandering  in  that  ancient  wood, 

As  onward  through  the  gloom  I  trod, 
From  all  the  woes  and  wrongs  of  earth 

My  soul  ascended  to  its  God. 
When  lo  !  in  the  hushed  wilderness 

I  heard,  far  off,  that  solemn  bell  : 
Still  heavenward  as  my  spirit  soared, 

Wilder  and  sweeter  rang  the  knell. 


THE  LOST  CHURCH.  21$ 

While  thus  in  holy  musings  rapt, 

My  mind  from  outward  sense  withdrawn, 
Some  power  had  caught   me  from  the  earth, 

And  far  into  the  heavens  upborne  — 
Methought  a  hundred  years  had  passed, 

In  mystic  visions  as  I  lay, 
When  suddenly  the  parting  clouds 

Seemed  opening  wide  and  far  away. 

No  midday  sun  its  glory  shed,  — 

The  stars  were  shrouded  from  my  sight,  — 
And  lo  !  majestic  o'er  my  head, 

A  minster  shone  in  solemn  light. 
High  through  the  lurid  heavens  it  seemed 

Aloft,  on  cloudy  wings,  to  rise, 
Till  all  its  pointed  turrets  gleamed, 

Far  flaming,  through  the  vaulted  skies  ; 

The  bell,  with  full,  resounding  peal, 

Rang  booming  through  the  rocking  tower  : 
No  hand  had  stirred  its  iron  tongue, 

Slow  swaying  to  the  storm-wind's  power. 
My  bosom  beating  like  a  bark 

Dashed  by  the  surging  ocean's  foam, 
I  trod,  with  faltering,  fearful  joy, 

The  mazes  of  the  mighty  dome. 


2l6  THE  LOST  CHURCH. 

A  soft  light  through  the  oriel  streamed, 

Like  summer  moonlight's  golden  gloom ; 
Far  through  the  dusky  arches  gleamed, 

And  filled  with  glory  all  the  room. 
Pale  sculptures  of  the  sainted  dead 

Seemed  waking  from  their  icy  thrall, 
And  many  a  glory-circled  head 

Smiled  sadly  from  the  storied  wall. 

Low  at  the  altar's  foot  I  knelt, 

Transfixed  with  awe,  and  dumb  with  dread, 
For  blazoned  on  the  vaulted  roof 

Were  heaven's  fiercest  glories  spread. 
Yet  when  I  raised  my  eyes  once  more, 

The  vaulted  roof  itself  was  gone ; 
Wide  open  was  heaven's  lofty  door, 

And  every  cloudy  veil  withdrawn  ! 

What  visions  burst  upon  my  soul  — 

What  joys  unutterable  there, 
In  waves  on  waves,  forever  roll 

Like  music  through  the  pulseless  air  — 
These  never  mortal  tongue  may  tell : 

Let  him  who  fain  would  prove  their  .power 
Pause  when  he  hears  that  solemn  knell 

Float  on  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour. 


LEONORA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  BURGER. 

FROM  heavy  dreams,  sad  Leonore 

Rose  with  the  dawning  day ; 
Her  heart  oppressed  by  boding  fears 

At  Wilhelm's  long  delay. 
With  Frederic's  force  her  soldier  went 

To  meet  his  country's  foe  ; 
And  since,  no  tidings  had  he  sent 

To  tell  of  weal  or  woe. 

The  king  and  the  proud  empress-queen, 

Weary  of  endless  war, 
At  length  renounce  their  fruitless  strife 

And  welcome  peace  once  more. 
The  weary,  toil-worn  warriors  come, 

Rejoicing  on  their  way  ; 
With  blare  of  trump  and  beat  of  drum, 

In  oaken  garlands  gay. 


2l8  LEONORA. 

And  every  way-side,  every  path, 

Is  thronged  with  eager  feet, 
Of  friends  and  kindred,  hurrying  forth 

The  coming  host  to  meet. 
The  lover  greets  his  plighted  bride ; 

But  ah  !  for  poor  Leonore,  — 
No  greeting  to  her  pallid  lips 

Shall  bring  the  roses  more. 

She  wandered  up  and  down  the  road, 

To  frantic  fears  a  prey, 
And  vainly  questioned  all  that  came, 

Throughout  that  weary  day  ; 
The  army  now  had  all  passed  by  ! 

She  tore  her  raven  hair, 
She  threw  herself  upon  the  earth, 

In  desolate  despair. 

The  mother  folds  her  to  her  heart, 

And  seeks  with  counsels  vain 
Some  word  of  comfort  to  impart 

To  soothe  her  darling's  pain. 
"  Oh  mother,  what  is  lost  is  lost ! 

Now  Earth  and  Heaven  may  go. 
There  is  no  pitying  God  in  Heaven  — 

No  love  for  aught  below." 


LEONORA.  219 

"  Peace,  peace  !  who  know  the  Father's  love, 

Knows  he  can  aid  impart ;  — 
The  blessed  sacrament  shall  soothe 
Thy  pierced  and  bleeding  heart." 
"  No  balm  upon  this  burning  heart 

The  sacrament  can  pour !  — 
No  sacrament  to  love  and  life 
The  cold,  cold  dead  restore.1 

"  Oh  mother,  would  my  lamp  of  life 

Would  sink  in  endless  night ! 
How  shall  I  loathe  the  midnight  gloom 

And  loathe  the  morning  light ! 
And  what,  to  me,  is  Heaven's  bliss. 

And  what,  to  me,  is  Hell ; 
With  him,  with  him  is  happiness, 

And  oh,  without  him,  Hell ! " 

"  Perchance,  dear  child,  he  loves  no  more, 

And  wandering  far  and  wide, 
Hath  sought,  upon  a  foreign  shore, 

To  wed  a  foreign  bride." 
"  Oh  mother,  what  is  lost  is  lost ! 

There  is  no  pitying  love — 
No  joy  in  life,  no  balm  in  death — 
No  hope  in  Heaven  above. 


220  LEONORA. 

"Go  out,  life's  light,  —  forever  out ; 

Die,  die,  in  night  and  dread ! 
There  is  no  pitying  God  in  Heaven  ; 

Would,  would  that  I  were  dead  ! " 
Thus  raged  the  frenzy  of  despair 

Within  her  burning  brain  — 
Thus  with  God's  righteous  providence 

She  strove  in  anguish  vain. 

She  beat  her  breast  and  tore  her  hair 

Till  the  long  day  was  done,  — 
Till  in  the  West  the  silent  stars 

Came  twinkling  one  by  one. 
She  sat  within  her  lonely  room, 

Nor  marked  the  dying  day, 
Till  the  moon's  light,  o'er  tower  and  height, 

In  silver  glory  lay. 

When  lo  !  she  hears  a  courser's  hoofs 

Ring  on  the  frozen  ground : 
A  knight  alights  before  the  gate  — 

His  clanging  arms  resound. 
And  hark  !  a  low  and  soft  "kling  ling" 

Sounds  through  the  silent  room ! 
And  hark !  a  well  known  voice  she  hears 

Beside  her  in  the  gloom  ! 


LEONORA.  221 

"  What  ho  !  Leonore  :  unbar  the  door  ;  — 

Art  watching  or  asleep  ?  — 
Doth  my  fair  bride  forget  her  vows, 

Or  fear  her  vows  to  keep  ?  " 
"  Ah  Wilhelm,  thou  !  so  late  at  night  ? 

Oh,  I  have  watched  and  wept ; 
What  from  thy  Leonora's  side 
So  long  her  love  hath  kept !  " 

"  From  far  Hungarian  fields  I  come 

On  my  lone  midnight  ride, 
To  bear  thee  to  thy  distant  home  ; 

Away,  away  my  bride !  " 
"The wind  blows  through  the  hawthorn  bush; 

In  whistles  loud  and  shrill ; 
Come  in,  and  warm  thee  in  my  arms  ; 
Ah !  why  so  cold  and  still  ? " 

"  Let  the  wind  through  the  hawthorn  blow, 

Or  howl  across  the  mere  ; 
The  black  horse  paws,  and  clank  the  spurs, 

I  dare  not  linger  here. 
Come,  don  thy  snow-white  robes  with  speed, 

And  swiftly  mount  behind  ; 
We  ride  a  hundred  leagues  ere  day, 

Our  bridal  bed  to  find  ! " 


222  LEONORA. 

"  And  must  we  ride  a  hundred  leagues 

To  reach  our  bridal  bower  ? 
Hark  !  even  now,  the  booming  bell 

Tolls  out  the  midnight  hour." 
"  Ha !    dost   thou  fear  ?  —  the   moon   shines 

clear ; 

Soon  will  our  course  be  sped ! 
I  bear  thee  to  our  bridal  home 
And  to  our  bridal  bed." 

"Ah !  tell  me  where  the  bridal  hall, 

And  where  the  couch  is  spread  ? " 
"  Far,  far  from  here  ;  cold,  narrow,  drear, 

Lies  our  low  marriage  bed  !  " 
"  Hast  room  for  me  ? "     "  For  thee  and  me  ; 

Come,  busk  thee,  darling  bride ; 
The  wedding  guests  are  waiting, 

The  door  stands  open  wide." 

The  maiden  donned  her  bridal  robes  ; 

On  the  black  steed  she  sprung, 
And  round  the  knight  her  snowy  arms 

In  trembling  silence  flung. 
And  on  they  gallop,  fast  and  far, 
Nor  mount  nor  stream  their  course  can  bar  ; 
While  horse  and  rider  pant  and  blow  ; 
The  fire-sparks  flashing  as  they  go. 


LEONORA.  223 

The  crags  shoot  by,  —  the  castles  fly,  — 

The  rattling  hoofs  resound  ; 
The  bridges  thunder  'neath  their  tread, 

And  rings  the  hollow  ground. 
"  Ha !  doth  my  Leonora  fear 

With  her  true  love  to  ride  ? 
The  midnight  moon  shines  cold  and  clear  — 

The  dead  ride  swift,  my  bride !  " 

Hark !  wailings  float  upon  the  air, 

And  hollow  dirges  ring  ! 
Why  tolls  the  bell  that  solemn  knell, 

Why  flaps  the  raven's  wing  ? 
Lo,  sweeping  o'er  the  lonely  moor, 

A  dark  funereal  train  ! 
They  chant  a  requiem  o'er  the  bier,  — 

A  hoarse,  sepulchral  strain. 

"  Bury  your  dead  when  midnight 's  past, 

With  wild  lament  and  prayer ; 
To-night  I  wed  a  fearless  bride, 

Our  banquet  ye  shall  share. 
Come,  priest  and  choir,  and  mourners  all, 

Come,  crone  the  marriage  song ; 
Come,  priest,  and  bless  the  bridal  bed, 

And  join  the  merry  throng." 


224  LEONORA. 

Now  fades  into  the  dusky  air 

The  coffin  and  the  pall ; 
They  sweep  along,  a  ghostly  throng, 

The  mourners,  priest,  and  all ; 
And  faster,  faster,  still  they  speed, 
O'er  wild  morass  and  moonlight  mead, 
While  horse  and  rider  pant  and  blow, 
The  fire  sparks  flashing  as  they  go  ! 

How  swiftly,  on  the  right  and  left, 

The  mountains  hurry  by  ; 
How  swiftly,  on  the  right  and  left, 

Town,  tower,  and  forest  fly  ! 
"Doth  my  love  fear  ?  the  moon  shines  clear; 

Ah  ha !  dost  fear  the  dead  ? 
The  dead  ride  swift,  —  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! " 
"  Ah,  speak  not  of  the  dead  !  " 

Now,  where  the  moonbeams  faintly  fall, 

Yon  frantic  rabble  see  ; 
How  fearfully  they  wheel  and  spin, 

Beneath  the  gallows-tree  ! 
"  Halloo,  halloo  !  ye  grisly  crew, 

Come  here,  and  follow  me  ; 
Around  us  prance  a  fetter-dance, 

And  quit  the  gallows-tree." 


LEONORA.  22$ 

And  now,  across  the  moonlit  waste, 

They  hurry  on  behind  ; 
A  sound  like  dry  and  withered  leaves, 

Low  rustling  in  the  wind. 
And  onward,  onward  still  they  speed, 
Nor  rock  nor  stock  their  course  impede  ; 
While  horse  and  rider  pant  and  blow, 
The  fire-sparks  flashing  as  they  go ! 

Fast  flies  the  quiet  moonlight  scene, 

Fast,  fast  and  far,  it  flies  ; 
Fast  fly  the  fleecy  clouds  above, 

And  fast  the  starry  skies. 
"  Ah  !  dost  thou  fear  ? —  the  moon  shines  clear ; 

And  fast  the  dead  can  ride." 
"  Oh,  name  the  dead  no  more  !  "  "  Ah,  ha  ! 
Dost  fear  the  dead,  my  bride  ? 

"  Methinks  I  smell  the  morning  air, 
And  hark  !  the  cock  doth  crow ! 
Then  onward  speed,  my  trusty  steed  ! 

Haste,  haste  !  our  sands  run  low. 
Our  race  is  run,  our  course  is  done, 

And  we  are  at  the  goal ; 
Swift  ride  the  dead,  —  hurrah,  hurrah  ! 
Come,  priest,  bind  soul  to  soul !  " 
15 


226  LEONORA. 

Up  to  a  gloomy  portal  now, 

With  slackened  rein  they  ride ; 
When  lo  !  the  massive  bar  and  bolt 

Back  from  their  staples  glide. 
And  as  the  dark  and  sounding  door 

Upon  its  hinges  turns, 
She  sees,  in  the  moon's  glimmering  light, 

Gray  tombs  and  moldering  urns. 

Suddenly,  from  the  rider's  form, 

By  some  unearthly  spell, 
The  welded  armor,  piece  by  piece, 

In  shivered  fragments  fell. 
She  sees  a  hideous  skeleton, 

A  ghastly  Horror,  stand 
Before  her  glazing  eyes  revealed,  — 

An  hour-glass  in  his  hand. 

High  reared  the  fiery,  frantic  steed, 

And  trembled  with  affright ; 
Then  sank  into  the  yawning  earth, 

And  vanished  from  her  sight ! 
Wild  howlings  echoed  through  the  air, 

And  from  the  graves  beneath  ; 
While  Leonora's  throbbing  heart 

Trembled  'twixt  life  and  death. 


LEONORA.  227 

Now  round  her,  in  the  pallid  light, 

The  wheeling  spectres  fly, 
And,  as  they  vanish  from  her  sight, 

In  hollow  murmurs  cry  : 
"  Repent ;  nor  doubt  the  Father's  love  ; 

Submit  to  Heaven's  control : 
We  yield  thy  body  to  the  earth  : 

May  God  receive  thy  soul." 


FROM   GOETHE'S   FAUST. 

PART   SECOND. 

SCENE  AT   THE   COURT   OF    THE    EMPEROR. 
MEPHISTOPHELES. 

IT  seems  that  everywhere  on  this  dull  earth 
Something  is  lacking;  —  hereoi  gold  is  dearth. 
'T  is  true  we  cannot  sweep  it  from  the  floor, 
But  wisdom  can  unfathomed  depths  explore. 
In  mountain  clefts  and  dungeons  manifold, 
Are  piles  of  minted  and  unminted  gold, 
And  I,  by  spiritual  force  and  trust 
In  mighty  nature,  can  obtain  the  dust. 

CHANCELLOR. 

Nature  and  spirit !  —  never  Christian  spake 
Such  words  as  these.  —  We  burn  men  at  the 

stake 

For  such  profanities.     Foul  words  and  evil ! 
Nature  means  sin,  and  spirit  means  the  Devil ; 


FROM  GOETHE'S  FAUST.  2 29 

And,   between   both,    is    nursed   the   abortive 

brood 
Whose  monster  heresies  mankind  delude. 

MEPHISTOPHELES. 

By  this  I  see  what  wiseacres  ye  are ; 
What  ye  can  handle  not  seems  miles  afar : 
What  ye  can  grasp  not  is  an  empty  shade ; 
What  ye  divine  not  must  all  search  evade : 
That  which  ye  have  not  poised  in  weight  is 

stinted, 
And  no  coin  current  save  what  ye  have  minted. 


TO   THE   CLOUDS. 

FROM    THE   GERMAN. 

CLOUDS  that  sweep  the  midnight  heaven, 
On  your  wild  wings  let  me  rove ; 

Leave  me  not  with  anguish  riven, 
None  who  love  me,  —  none  to  love. 

Oft,  my  nightly  vigils  keeping, 
I  have  watched  ye  till  the  dawn ; 

Through  the  far  blue  heavens  sweeping, 
On  your  snowy  pinions  borne. 

Away,  —  away,  forever  speeding, 
Careless  wanderers  of  the  air,  - 

Human  joy  or  woe  unheeding,  - 
Ah,  ye  pause  not  at  my  prayer : 

Leave,  oh,  leave  me  not  in  sadness,  - 
Heavenly  longings  in  my  breast,  — 

Bear  me,  on  your  wings  of  gladness, 
To  the  far  home  of  my  rest. 


TO   THE  CLOUDS.  231 

On  the  lonely  hills  of  morning 
Breaks  a  red  and  lurid  ray ;  — 

Hide  me,  hide  me  from  the  dawning,  — 
Fold  me  from  the  dreary  day ! 


THE   DYING  HEROES. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

THE  valiant   Danes  drive   back  the   Swedish 

host 

In  wild  confusion  to  the  northern  coast ; 
The    sounding   chariots    clash,  —  the    bright 

swords  gleam, 
The  broad,  round  shields  flash  back  the  moon's 

cold  beam ; 

On  the  red  corse-field,  mid  the  fierce  affray, 
Lies  the  young  Sven  and  Ulf  the  warrior  gray. 

SVEN. 

Alas  !  my  father,  in  the  power  and  bloom 
Of  life,  grim  Norna  calls  me  to  the  tomb : 
In  vain  my  mother,  from  the  oaken  bough, 
Weaves   a   bright    garland   for   her   warrior's 

brow  ;  — 

From  her  high  tower  my  Edith  looks  in  vain 
To  see  my  chariot  in  the  victor's  train. 


THE  DYING  HEROES. 


233 


ULF. 

In  the  gray  night  for  thee  her  tears  shall  fall, 
Till  visioned  sleep  thine  image  shall  recall ; 
Yet  mourn  not  thus  :  the  path  which  thou  hast 

led, 
Though   dark   the  way,  she  will   not  fear  to 

tread  ; 
Soon  shall    she,  smiling   through  her   golden 

hair, 
For  thee  at  Odin's  feast  the  bowl  prepare. 

SVEN. 

No  more  the  solemn  chant  my  voice  shall  raise 
Amid  our  warrior  youth  on  festal  days ; 
The  deeds  of  kings  and  heroes  sing  no  more ; 
Their  conquering  arms,  their  fates  in  love  and 

war  ; 

Through  my  neglected  harp  the  wind  shall  sigh, 
And  wake  low  dirges  as  it  wanders  by. 


High  towers  above  us,  like  an  eagle's  nest, 
The  bright  Valhalla  of  our  fathers'  rest ; 
The  stars  roll  under  it,  and,  far  below, 
Red  meteors  gleam  and  fiery  comets  glow ;  — 
There,  at  the  solemn  feast,  we  meet  again  ; 
Lift  up  thy  song  to  a  triumphal  strain  ! 


234  THE  DYING  HEROES. 

SVEN. 

Ah,  heavy  doom !  thus  from  the  bright  world 

torn,  — 

From  life  and  love  in  youth's  unhonored  morn  ; 
While  yet  no  proud  deed  of  the  battle-field  - 
No  trophied  arms,  are  sculptured  on  my  shield  : 
Twelve  fearful  judges  sit  enthroned  on  high; 
How  shall  I  shrink  before  each  awful  eye  ! 

ULF. 

One  lofty  deed  their  favor  shall  secure,  — 
One  deed  whose  rays  no  shadow  can  obscure ; 
Pours    not    thy  young   heart,  on   this    barren 

strand, 

Its  life-blood  freely  for  our  fatherland  ? 
And  see  !  our  foemen  yield  :  —  the  clouds  are 

riven  ! 
There  lies  our  pathway  to  the  halls  of  Heaven  ! 


THE  COTTAGE. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    GLEIM. 

I  HAVE  a  cottage  by  the  hill ; 

It  stands  upon  a  meadow  green ; 
Behind  it  flows  a  murmuring  rill, 

Cool-rooted  moss  and  flowers  between. 

Beside  the  cottage  stands  a  tree, 

That  flings  its  shadow  o'er  the  eaves ; 

And  scarce  the  sunshine  visits  me, 

Save  when  a  light  wind  rifts  the  leaves. 

A  red-bird  sings  upon  a  spray, 

Through  the  sweet  summer-time,  night-long, 
And  evening  travelers  on  their  way 

Linger  to  hear  her  plaintive  song. 

Thou,  maiden,  with  the  yellow  hair,  — 
The  winds  of  life  are  sharp  and  chill,  — 

Wilt  thou  not  seek  a  shelter  there, 
In  yon  lone  cottage  by  the  hill  ? 


CINDERELLA, 

AND 

THE    SLEEPING   BEAUTY. 


The  two  following  Poems,  written  conjointly  by  Mrs.  Whitman  and  her 
sister,  Miss  Susan  Anna  Power,  appeared  in  Mrs  Kirkland's  "  Union 
Magazine  "  in  1848,  and  were  revised  and  reprinted  in  1867. 


CINDERELLA. 

' '  Pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 
Masque  and  antique  pageantry." 

V  Allegro. 

PART   I. 

THE  night  was  cold,  the  skies  were  bleak, 

The  ways  were  dark  and  dreary, 
When  Cinderella  o'er  the  fire 

Sat  hovering,  worn  and  weary. 
Neglected  in  her  childhood's  home, 

She  knew  no  mother's  care, 
Condemned,  in  youthful  loveliness, 

A  menial's  lot  to  share. 

Her  haughty  sisters  spend  their  days 

In  splendor  and  parade ; 
To  ball  and  opera  they  go, 

To  play  and  masquerade  : 
And  now,  bedecked  with  gems  and  gold, 

In  festal  crowds  they  shone, 
While  she  beside  the  chimney  nook 

Sat  musing  and  alone. 


240  CINDERELLA. 

The  ruddy  hearth-fires  gleam  and  fade 

Upon  the  dusky  wall, 
And  on  the  oaken  paneling 

Fantastic  shadows  fall. 
No  sound  is  heard  in  all  the  house, 

So  lonely  now  and  drear, 
And  e'en  the  cricket's  drowsy  song 

Falls  faintly  on  her  ear. 

There  pensive  by  the  hearth  she  sat 

And  watched  the  flickering  fire, 
Nor  saw  that  close  beside  her  stood 

A  dame  in  rich  attire. 
When,  lo  !  upon  her  startled  gaze 

A  matchless  splendor  broke, 
As  thus,  in  thrilling  words  and  low, 

The  radiant  fairy  spoke  :  — 

"  No  longer  shalt  thou  moping  sit, 

Oppressed  with  gloom  and  care, 
But  at  the  royal  banquet  shine 

The  fairest  of  the  fair. 
Go,  search,  and  by  the  garden  wall 

A  pompion  thou  shalt  find, 
And  lo  !  a  chariot  shall  arise 

From  out  its  golden  rind  ! 


CINDERELLA.  24! 

"  Down  in  the  cellar's  darkest  nook 

A  rat-trap  shalt  behold, 
Whose  narrow  space  doth  stable  steeds 

Of  more  than  mortal  mold  ! 
Behind  the  moss-grown  garden  well 

Six  lizards  thou  shalt  see ; 
These,  with  the  pompion  and  the  trap, 

Go  quickly  bring  to  me." 

And  now  she  sees  with  wondering  awe 

Six  powdered  footmen  stand, 
Six  mice  transformed  to  stately  steeds 

Beneath  the  fairy's  wand  ! 
At  length  a  glittering  car  arose 

From  out  the  pompion's  rind, 
While  blazing  torches  flamed  before 

And  footmen  swung  behind  ! 

Lo  !  Cinderella's  tattered  garb, 

With  dust  and  ashes  strown, 
Touched  by  the  fairy's  magic  wand, 

With  pearls  and  diamonds  shone ! 
All  woven  woof  of  mortal  loom 

Her  vesture  did  surpass, 
And  on  her  little  feet  were  seen 

Two  slippers  framed  of  glass  ! 
16 


242  CINDERELLA. 

"Now,"  said  the  fairy,  "mount  thy  car 

And  to  the  palace  speed, 
But  as  you  prize  my  fairy  gifts, 

My  parting  counsel  heed  : 
Shouldst  thou  within  the  castle  gates 

Outstay  the  midnight  hour, 
Thy  gorgeous  robes  to  tatters  turn, 

My  spell  hath  lost  its  power." 

She  said  : — the  fiery  coursers  prance, 

Their  rattling  hoofs  resound, 
With  tossing  heads  and  flying  manes 

They  clear  the  frozen  ground. 
The  Prince  (informed  some  noble  dame 

Arrives  in  matchless  state), 
With  all  his  royal  retinue, 

Receives  her  at  the  gate. 

With  courtly  grace  the  startled  child 

He  up  the  staircase  hands, 
And  now  within  (the  blazing  hall 

Sweet  Cinderella  stands. 
Soon  as  she  stept  within  the  door 

The  music  ceased  to  sound, 
And  on  the  softly  perfumed  air 

A  murmur  floats  around. 


CINDERELLA.  243 

Before  her  nobles  bent  the  knee, 

And  courtly  dames  caressed, 
While  foremost  in  the  glittering  throng 

Her  haughty  sisters  pressed. 
Amid  the  glittering  throng  she  stood 

Like  some  wild  woodland  flower, 
Blushing  at  her  own  loveliness, 

And  trembling  at  its  power. 

The  Prince,  enamored,  claimed  her  hand 

And  bore  her  to  the  dance, 
And  oft  amid  its  mazy  rings 

She  sought  her  sisters'  glance. 
At  length  upon  the  castle  clock 

She  chanced  to  turn  her  eye 
And  starts  to  see  upon  its  face 

The  hour  of  midnight  nigh  ! 

Then,  swiftly  as  a  falling  star 

Shoots  through  the  gloom  of  night, 
She  sprang  into  her  airy  car 

And  vanished  from  their  sight. 
And  now  of  all  her  splendor  reft 

And  all  her  rich  attire, 
She  takes  her  solitary  place 

Beside  the  smoldering  fire. 


244  CINDERELLA. 

But  soon  she  hears  a  thundering  knock 

Resounding  through  the  hall ;  - 
The  sisters  all  come  rushing  in, 

Enraptured  with  the  ball. 
All  talk  at  once  and  all  descant 

Upon  the  unknown  guest, 
And  tell  of  all  the  courtesies 

She  showed  them  at  the  feast. 

They  say  that  court  and  city  now 

Are  ringing  with  her  fame. 
The  Prince  has  offered  countless  sums 

To  learn  the  stranger's  name. 
Fair  Cinderella,  wild  with  joy, 

Seems  little  heed  to  take, 
She  only  yawns  and  rubs  her  eyes 

As  if  but  half  awake. 

At  length  she  said,  "Ah,  sisters  dear, 

Might  I  but  only  go, 
To-morrow  night,  in  pearl  and  white, 

With  you  to  see  the  show  ? " 
"  In  pearl  and  white,  you  little  fright ! 

A  figure  you  would  cut ! 
How  would  your  pearl  and  white  agree 

With  cinders  and  with  smut  ? " 


CINDERELLA.  245 

;'  Then  would  my  sister  Charlotte,  dear, 

But  only  give  me  leave 
To  wear  the  yellow  satin  dress 

She  wore  on  Christmas  eve  ? " 
"  Lend  you  my  satin  dress,  indeed  ! 

But  understand  at  once 
That  courts  and  balls  are  not  for  such 
As  you,  you  little  dunce  !  " 


PART  II. 

Again  the  palace  halls  are  thronged 

With  many  a  noble  guest, 
And  Cinderella,  lovelier  still, 

Is  there  among  the  rest. 
So  fast  the  golden  moments  fly 

In  rapture  and  delight, 
She  soon  forgets  to  count  the  hours 

Nor  heeds  their  rapid  flight. 

But,  hark !  at  length  the  castle  clock 
Sounds  from  its  lofty  tower  ; 

She  starts  to  hear  it,  stroke  by  stroke, 
Toll  forth  the  midnight  hour. 


246  CINDERELLA. 

She  fled  across  the  marble  floor 
Fleet  as  the  mountain  wind, 

But,  tripping  at  the  door,  she  left 
One  shining  shoe  behind. 

There,  gleaming  like  a  diamond  spark, 

The  little  slipper  lies, 
Dropped  like  a  star-flake  in  the  path 

Where  some  swift  meteor  flies. 
Breathless  she  gains  the  castle  court, 

In  terror  and  dismay, 
With  naught  of  all  her  splendor  left 

Nor  all  her  rich  array. 

Her  rich  array,  to  tatters  turned, 

Hangs  fluttering  in  the  wind  ; 
The  mice  run  scampering  on  before, 

The  pompion  rolls  behind  ! 
The  guards  that  round  the  portal  wait, 

With  startled  eyes,  behold 
A  vagrant  leave  the  palace  gate 

And  cross  the  moonlit  wold. 

And  wondering  menials  stare  to  see 

The  little  beggar  pass, 
For  nought  of  all  her  pomp  remains 

Except  one  shoe  of  glass. 


CINDERELLA.  247 

Next  day  the  herald's  trump  did  sound 

Proclaiming  far  and  wide 
That  whosoe'er  could  wear  the  shoe 

Should  be  the  Prince's  bride  ! 

From  street  to  street,  from  house  to  house, 

The  glittering  prize  they  bear, 
But  ne'er  a  lady  in  the  land 

That  little  shoe  could  wear. 
'T  was  midnight  ere  they  reached  the  door 

Where  Cinderella  dwelt, 
Who  vainly  strove  to  veil  her  heart 

And  hide  the  joy  she  felt. 

The  sisters  rushed  into  the  hall 

And  sought,  with  vain  ado, 
To  press  and  pinch  and  crowd  their  feet 

Into  the  fairy  shoe. 
Till  Cinderella,  all  the  while 

Demurely  standing  by, 
Now  on  the  royal  messenger 

Cast  an  appealing  eye. 

The  mute  request  with  curling  lip 

The  tittering  sisters  see, 
But  soon  to  wonder  and  amaze 

Was  turned  their  scornful  glee. 


248  CINDERELLA. 

With  perfect  ease  she  slides  her  foot 

Into  the  fairy  shoe, 
Then,  blushing,  from  her  folded  vest 

Its  little  partner  drew. 

When,  lo  !  soft  music  filled  the  air, 

Resplendent  lustre  shone  ; 
The  fairy  comes  to  claim  her  charge 

And  lead  her  to  a  throne. 
And  "  Ne'er  forget,  my  child,"  she  said, 

"  In  sorrow's  darkest  hour 
That  unseen  guardians  still  are  nigh 

To  aid  thee  with  their  power : 

"And  often  in  yon  glittering  court 

Recall  my  last  behest, 
For  pleasure's  self  pursued  too  far 

Shall  lose  its  sweetest  zest. 
Then  count  the  moments  as  they  pass 

And  heed  their  warning  chime, 
Nor  ever  in  life's  mazy  dance 

Forget  the  flight  of  time." 
1848. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

"  A  tale  of  forests  and  enchantments  drear."    //  Penseroso. 

Sister,  't  is  the  noon  of  night !  — 

Let  us,  in  the  web  of  thought, 
Weave  the  threads  of  ancient  song, 

From  the  realms  of  ,Fairie  brought. 

Thou  shalt  stain  the  dusky  warp 

In  nightshade  wet  with  twilight  dew  ; 
I,  with  streaks  of  morning  gold, 

Will  strike  the  fabric  through  and  through. 

PART  I. 

WHERE  a  lone  castle  by  the  sea 

Upreared  its  dark  and  moldering  pile, 

Far  seen,  with  all  its  frowning  towers, 
For  many  and  many  a  weary  mile ; 

The  wild  waves  beat  the  castle  walls 

And  bathed  the  rock  with  ceaseless  showers, 

The  winds  roared  hoarsely  round  the  pile, 
And  moaned  along  its  moldering  towers. 

Within  those  wide  and  echoing  halls, 
To  guard  her  from  a  fatal  spell, 


250  THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

A  maid,  of  noble  lineage  born, 
Was  doomed  in  solitude  to  dwell. 

With  portents  dark  and  omens  dire, 

The  orphan's  natal  day  began, 
As  warring  destinies  conspire 

Her  charmed  life  to  bless  or  ban. 

Four  Fairies  graced  the  infant's  birth 

With  fame  and  beauty,  wealth  and  power  ; 

A  fifth,  by  one  fell  stroke,  reversed 
The  magic  splendors  of  her  dower : 

If  e'er  a  spindle's  shining  steel 

Should  pierce  the  maiden's  lily  hand, 

A  solemn  trance  her  eyes  should  seal 
In  sleep's  forlorn,  enchanted  land  : 

A  hundred  years  her  soul  should  stray 
In  far-off  shadow-lands  of  dream, 

Till,  warm  beneath  love's  kindling  ray, 
It  opened  to  the  morning's  beam. 

In  olden  times  the  tale  had  birth, 
By  wandering  minstrels  told  of  yore, 

Whose  names  have  perished  from  the  earth,  - 
Whose  legends  live  in  fairy  lore. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY.  2$  I 

The  wild  waves  beat  the  castle  wall, 

And  bathed  the  rock  with  ceaseless  showers  ; 

Dark,  heaving  billows  plunge  and  fall 
In  whitening  foam  beneath  the  towers. 

There,  rocked  by  winds  and  lulled  by  waves, 
In  youthful  grace  the  maiden  grew, 

And  from  her  solitary  dreams 

A  sweet  and  pensive  pleasure  drew. 

Yet  often,  from  her  lattice  high, 

She  gazed  athwart  the  gathering  night 

To  mark  the  sea-gulls  wheeling  by, 
And  longed  to  follow  in  their  flight. 

One  winter  night,  beside  the  hearth 

She  sat  and  watched  the  smoldering  fire, 

While  now  the  tempest  seemed  to  lull, 
And  now  the  winds  rose  high  and  higher, 

Strange  sounds  are  heard  along  the  wall, 
Dim  faces  glimmer  through  the  gloom, 

And  still  mysterious  voices  call, 

And  shadows  flit  from  room  to  room  : 

Till,  bending  o'er  the  dying  brands, 
She  chanced  a  sudden  gleam  to  see ; 


252  THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

She  turned  the  sparkling  embers  o  er, 
And  lo  !  she  finds  a  golden  key  ! 

Lured  on,  as  by  an  unseen  hand, 

She  roamed  the  castle  o'er  and  o'er,  — 

Through  many  a  darkling  chamber  sped, 
And  many  a  dusky  corridor : 

And  still,  through  unknown,  winding  ways 
She  wandered  on  for  many  an  hour, 

For  gallery  still  to  gallery  leads, 
And  tower  succeeds  to  tower. 

Oft,  wearied  with  the  steep  ascent, 
She  lingered  on  her  lonely  way, 

And  paused  beside  the  pictured  walls, 
Their  countless  wonders  to  survey. 

At  length,  upon  a  narrow  stair 
That  wound  within  a  turret  high, 

She  saw  a  little  low-browed  door, 
And  turned,  her  golden  key  to  try ; 

Slowly,  beneath  her  trembling  hand, 
The  bolts  recede,  and,  backward  flung, 

With  harsh  recoil  and  sullen  clang, 
The  door  upon  its  hinges  swung. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY.  2$$ 

There,  in  a  little  moonlit  room, 

She  sees  a  weird  and  withered  crone, 

Who  sat  and  spun  amid  the  gloom, 
And  turned  her  wheel  with  drowsy  drone. 

With  mute  amaze  and  wondering  awe, 
A  passing  moment  stood  the  maid, 

Then,  entering  at  the  narrow  door, 
More  near  the  mystic  task  surveyed. 

She  saw  her  twine  the  flaxen  fleece, 
She  saw  her  draw  the  flaxen  thread, 

She  viewed  the  spindle's  shining  point, 
And,  pleased,  the  novel  task  surveyed. 

A  sudden  longing  seized  her  breast 

To  twine  the  fleece,  —  to  turn  the  wheel : 

She  stretched  her  lily  hand,  and  pierced 
Her  finger  with  the  shining  steel ! 

Slowly  her  heavy  eyelids  close, 

She  feels  a  drowsy  torpor  creep 
From  limb  to  limb,  till  every  sense 

Is  locked  in  an  enchanted  sleep. 

A  dreamless  slumber,  deep  as  night, 
In  deathly  trance  her  senses  locked. 


254  THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

At  once,  through  all  its  massive  vaults 
And  gloomy  towers,  the  castle  rocked. 

The  beldame  roused  her  from  her  lair, 
And  raised  on  high  a  mournful  wail,  — 

A  shrilly  scream  that  seemed  to  float 
A  requiem  on  the  dying  gale. 

"  A  hundred  years  shall  pass,"  she  said, 
"  Ere  those  blue  eyes  behold  the  morn,  — 

Ere  these  deserted  halls  and  towers 
Shall  echo  to  a  bugle-horn  ; 

"  A  hundred  Norland  winters  pass, 

While  drenching  rains  and  drifting  snows 

Shall  beat  against  the  castle  walls, 
Nor  wake  thee  from  thy  long  repose. 

"  A  hundred  times  the  golden  grain 
Shall  wave  beneath  the  harvest  moon, 

Twelve  hundred  moons  shall  wax  and  wane 
Ere  yet  thine  eyes  behold  the  sun  !  " 

She  ceased ;  but  still  the  mystic  rhyme 
The  long-resounding  aisles  prolong, 

And  all  the  castle's  echoes  chime 
In  answering  cadence  to  her  song. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY.  255 

She  bore  the  maiden  to  her  bower, 
An  ancient  chamber,  wide  and  low, 

Where  golden  sconces  from  the  wall 
A  faint  and  trembling  lustre  throw  ; 

A  silent  chamber,  far  apart, 

Where  strange  and  antique  arras  hung, 
That  waved  along  the  moldering  walls, 

And  in  the  gusty  night-wind  swung. 

She  laid  her  on  her  ivory  bed, 

And  gently  smoothed  each  snowy  limb, 
Then  drew  the  curtain's  dusky  fold 

To  make  the  entering  daylight  dim. 


PART  II. 

And  all  around,  on  every  side, 
Throughout  the  castle's  precincts  wide, 

In  every  bower  and  hall, 
All  slept :  the  warder  in  the  court, 
The  figures  on  the  arras  wrought, 

The  steed  within  his  stall. 


256  THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

No  more  the  watch-dog  bayed  the  moon, 
The  owlet  ceased  her  boding  tune, 

The  raven  on  his  tower, 
All,  hushed  in  slumber  still  and  deep, 
Enthralled  in  an  enchanted  sleep, 

Await  the  appointed  hour. 

A  pathless  forest,  wild  and  wide, 
Engirt  the  castle's  inland  side, 

And  stretched  for  many  a  mile  ; 
So  thick  the  deep,  impervious  screen, 
Its  topmost  towers  were  dimly  seen 

Above  the  moldering  pile. 

So  high  the  ancient  cedars  sprung, 
So  far  aloft  their  branches  flung, 

So  close  the  covert  grew, 
No  foot  its  silence  could  invade, 
No  eye  could  pierce  its  depths  of  shade, 

Or  see  the  welkin  through. 

Yet  oft,  as  from  some  distant  mound, 
The  traveler  cast  his  eyes  around 

O'er  wold  and  woodland  gray, 
He  saw,  as  by  the  glimmering  light 
Of  moonbeams,  on  a  misty  night, 

A  castle  far  away. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

All  desolate  and  drear  it  stood 
Within  the  wild  and  tangled  wood, 

'Mid  gloomy  foss  and  fell  ; 
And  oft  the  maiden's  form  did  seem 
To  mingle  with  a  champion's  dream, 

As  Gothic  legends  tell. 

Long  ere  the  hundred  years  had  passed, 
Brave  knights,  with  vigil  and  with  fast, 

Essayed  to  break  the  thrall  ; 
Till,  in  the  old  romantic  time 
Of  minstrel  and  Provencal  rhyme, 

And  Amadis  de  Gaul, 

A  paladin  from  holy  land, 

With  helm  and  hauberk,  spear  and  brand, 

And  high,  untarnished  crest, 
By  visions  of  enchantment  led, 
Hath  vowed  the  magic  maze  to  tread, 

And  break  her  charmed  rest. 


As  in  the  Valley  of  St.  John, 
The  bold  de  Vaux  defied  alone 

The  mighty  elfin  powers, 
And  sought  to  gain  the  enchanted  mound, 
And  break  the  spell  that  darkly  bound 

Its  battlements  and  towers,  — 
17 


258  THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

So,  like  that  knight  of  Triermain, 
He  came  through  Saracenic  Spain 

O'er  deserts  waste  and  wide ; 
No  dangers  daunt,  no  toils  can  tire  ; 
With  throbbing  heart  and  soul  on  fire 

He  seeks  his  sleeping  bride. 

He  gains  the  old,  enchanted  wood, 
Where  never  mortal  footsteps  trod, 

He  pierced  its  tangled  gloom ; 
A  chillness  loads  the  lurid  air, 
Where  baleful  swamp-fires  gleam  and  glare 

His  pathway  to  illume. 

Well  might  the  warrior's  courage  fail, 
Well  might  his  lofty  spirit  quail, 

On  that  enchanted  ground  ; 
No  open  foeman  meets  him  there, 
But,  borne  upon  the  murky  air, 

Strange  horror  broods  around  ! 

At  every  turn  his  footsteps  sank 
'Mid  tangled  boughs  and  mosses  dank, 

For  long  and  weary  hours,  - 
Till  issuing  from  the  dangerous  wood, 
The  castle  full  before  him  stood, 

With  all  its  flanking  towers  ! 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAU  TV.  2$$ 

The  moon  a  paly  lustre  sheds  ; 

Resolved,  the  grass-grown  court  he  treads  ; 

The  gloomy  portal  gained, 
He  crossed  the  threshold's  magic  bound, 
He  paced  the  hall,  where  all  around 

A  deathly  silence  reigned. 

No  fears  his  venturous  course  could  stay,  — 
Darkling  he  groped  his  dreary  way,  — 

Up  the  wide  staircase  sprang  : 
It  echoed  to  his  mailed  heel  ; 
With  clang  of  arms  and  clash  of  steel 

The  silent  chambers  rang. 

He  sees  a  glimmering  taper  gleam 
Far  off,  with  faint  and  trembling  beam, 

Athwart  the  midnight  gloom  : 
Then  first  his  soul  confessed  a  fear, 
As  with  slow  footsteps  drawing  near, 

He  gained  the  lighted  room. 

And  now  the  waning  moon  was  low, 
The  perfumed  tapers  faintly  glow, 

And,  by  their  dying  gleam, 
He  raised  the  curtain's  dusky  fold, 
And  lo !  his  charmed  eyes  behold 

The  lady  of  his  dream  ! 


260  THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

As  violets  peep  from  wintry  snows, 
Slowly  her  heavy  lids  unclose, 

And  gently  heaves  her  breast  ; 
But  all  unconscious  was  her  gaze, 
Her  eye  with  listless  languor  strays 

From  brand  to  plumy  crest : 

A  rising  blush  begins  to  dawn 
Like  that  which  steals  at  early  morn 

Across  the  eastern  sky  ; 
And  slowly,  as  the  morning  broke, 
The  maiden  from  her  trance  awoke 

Beneath  his  ardent  eye  ! 

As  the  first  kindling  sunbeams  threw 
Their  level  light  athwart  the  dew, 

And  tipped  the  hills  with  flame, 
The  silent  forest-boughs  were  stirred 
With  music,  as  from  bee  and  bird 

A  mingling  murmur  came. 

From  out  its  depths  of  tangled  gloom 
There  came  a  breath  of  dewy  bloom. 

And,  from  the  valleys  dim, 
A  cloud  of  fragrant  incense  stole, 
As  if  each  violet  breathed  its  soul 

Into  that  floral  hymn. 


THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY.  261 

Loud  neighed  the  steed  within  his  stall, 
The  cock  crowed  on  the  castle  wall, 

The  warder  wound  his  horn  ; 
The  linnet  sang  in  leafy  bower, 
The  swallows,  twittering  from  the  tower, 

Salute  the  rosy  morn. 

But  fresher  than  the  rosy  morn, 
And  blither  than  the  bugle-horn, 

The  maiden's  heart  doth  prove, 
Who,  as  her  beaming  eyes  awake, 
Beholds  a  double  morning  break,  — 

The  dawn  of  light  and  love ! 
1848. 


Renewed  books  are  subject  ,oi, 


15Jwn'54MC 


' 


SJan'57LsX 


21 


? 


REC'DLD 

1  0  1555 
REC'B  LD  JUN;  1  2  70  -UAM   7 


2  9  ^005 


